


...and Nothing Shall by Any Means Hurt You

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Series: Sua Sponte That Sh*t [8]
Category: Justified
Genre: F/M, Post Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 34,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is left alone with his thoughts after shooting Colton Rhodes, and they are dark thoughts.  Maybe he isn't as okay with the shooting as everyone thinks he should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

There was something convenient about shooting a man dead in a church. You could get forgiveness right after, if you were looking for it. Tim didn't feel much like anything needed forgiving – he and Colton Rhodes were way past that, well beyond begging for salvation. A question crossed his mind as he let his fingers trace the frames of the sunglasses he held, Colton's, a trophy some might call them, but Tim considered them a memento, a reminder of where he might go if he didn't watch his step. There but for the grace of God… But back to the question, which was this: was it still a church if the preacher were dead? He had heard the story from Raylan, that Boyd had killed Billy the Preacher right here in this same church with the bite from a serpent. Would Boyd beg forgiveness? Tim didn't see much use in it, but then he didn't believe in God. God had withered under scrutiny somewhere between Kandahar and Kabul, and besides it was the snake, not Boyd, that bit Billy, so in fact God needed to forgive himself for that death. Or maybe Billy's the one who needed to beg forgiveness since he allowed himself to be tempted by pride. Either way.

 _Jesus_  
_is Coming_  
_Soon_

The sign was painted in red. Rather fitting. Tim decided mirthlessly, out of some deep down disdain for the pronouncement, that Jesus was coming for some sooner than others. Maybe Jesus and Colton were having a conversation right now. He'd like to be in on it, see if Colton really were sorry for Mark. Could you lie to Jesus? Probably. Considering what he had learned about men, lying shouldn't be a problem; getting an audience in heaven was the hurdle.

He dropped his head to stretch out his neck and spotted the blood on his shirt, wiped at it absentmindedly. Another one for the garbage; another body for the coroner.

A local Sheriff's deputy approached, hat off in reverence, tiptoeing between the benches like he was in a real church, not a circus tent church. Tim watched, snorted, a wry sound.

"Uh, you the shooter?" Waving his hat toward the body, the man asked Tim the question in a voice hushed, a voice reserved for the naves and the pews.

Tim flicked his eyes over at Colton then up to the deputy. "That's right."

He gave his statement mechanically – I did this, Colton did that – all the while letting his eyes wander the tent, reading the handmade signs, wondering at the spelling mistakes. Just how do you claim to be a spiritual leader of men and spell 'believe' wrong? _Belive?_ Maybe there was a message in the misspelling.

 _My House Shall Be Called_  
_the 'House of Prayer'_  
_Have_  
 _faith In GOD_  
 _What Things Soever You Desire_  
 _When You Pray Belive That You Receive Them_  
 _And YOU Shall Have Them_  
 _(Mark 11:24)_

Tim didn't miss the irony that he was facing words spoken by Mark while he was facing down Mark's killer. He thought hard about what he might desire, couldn't come up with anything that he'd ask God for, and dwelt a moment on the misspelling of the word 'believe.' Did he have to 'be live' to receive what he desired? And if Colton were right and Mark had mostly died over in Kandahar then Tim likely had too. So what then were the chances of getting whatsoever he desired if he were not alive? Pretty slim by the sign's reckoning. So why bother?

He turned his head and read another one.

 _Behold I give unto_  
_you the power to_  
 _tread on serpents_  
 _and scorpions… and_  
 _nothing shall by any_  
 _means hurt you._

And that's what Billy the Preacher believed foolishly when the serpent hurt him. And here was some more fine and memorable irony to take away from this – Tim didn't believe a word of it and yet he had possessed the power today to tread on the serpents and scorpions and he had come through unhurt. Well, mostly.

If he were ever to meet God, they could certainly share a few laughs since they certainly shared the same sense of humor, but Tim doubted he'd like him.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Tim would choke whenever he heard the words 'walk the straight and narrow' – not physically, just emotionally, like he needed to cough up a jaded hairball. 'Walk the straight and narrow' – people would say it like it was a cure-all for life's moral ambiguities. If only it were that easy. One foot in front of the other and keep your balance. Big deal. He could do that drunk. His moral life was more like a vertical than a ridge line, a cliff face that he clung to by the last knuckle on each finger, one-handed on a crimper with a nasty slope. A crimper was the term climbers used for a hold that you could only get the very ends of your fingers on, and that was what he had to work with. Tension was the only thing that kept you hanging from that hold. If you shifted your weight even slightly one way or the other, moved your foot to find a better purchase, tried to stand up straight without something higher to grasp hold of, you could lose your grip and fall.

Tim was scrambling for a new hold. Something about shooting Colton Rhodes had precipitated a shift in his world and he felt his position more precarious than it had been in a while. He couldn't settle back; he couldn't see a way forward. His legs were getting shaky and his fingers were slipping.

It was a long drive back from Harlan with nothing but his thoughts.

* * *

When all was said and done and Lexington was in the headlights once again, it was too late for an office celebration, and besides, Raylan had already had his applause when Drew Thompson was brought in the day before. A second round for a trailer whore, even a sweet one, would seem a bit of overkill, especially when the lead investigator had a suspension looming. Raylan called from the office, back with Rachel and Ellen Mae ahead of Tim who'd had to stay to give his statement. He suggested a quick drink at the bar.

Tim didn't feel like company but agreed anyway out of habit, then eyed that splash of blood on the front of his shirt. In the parking lot at the courthouse, he took off his jacket and pulled the shirt over his head, glad he'd worn a clean T underneath, balled up the offending article of clothing and dropped it in the waste bin by the elevator. He decided against a trip upstairs to the office and jogged straight over to the bar. Their usual table was free. He took the seat facing the door and quickly downed a shot of bourbon, and another, paying as he went, then ordered a beer to sip to cover the smell of whiskey while he waited for Art, Rachel and Raylan to appear.

There was a part of him satisfied that he'd dealt with Mark's killer but another part, a larger part, dissatisfied. There was no balance in the final tally. He had pushed the questions he had about the circumstances of Mark's death well into the background behind the pressing grief and the call for vengeance and the anger, and now that the killer was dead he had nothing to blind him to the fact that he was mostly angry with Mark and he knew too that once the spike of anger receded he'd be left with even less pleasant emotional debris – relief sullied by guilt, disappointment and a sense of futility, and mostly the latter.

What was Mark doing back at the dealer's house? It was too soon. He was buying. There was no doubt, no other explanation. Tim knew, coldly, certainly, Mark was buying again. The anger drained away before he finished his beer and he took a minute to examine the relief and disappointment hidden underneath. He'd been there every time Mark called – two years now – and dealing with Mark's struggles was putting himself in the path of his own fears. He was relieved to be done with it, yet the relief too passed quickly and now cloying futility was all he had left.

Tim took another long drink of his beer, thirsty, and watched the other three Marshals step into the bar. Rachel smiled over at him. Art was bending Raylan's ear about something while Raylan cast his eyes around, checking the other patrons. Tim lifted his jacket off of the chair he'd set it on, freeing it up, and slung it on the back of his. Colton Rhode's sunglasses made a dull thud against the wood, a dull thud against all the futility.

Art insisted on a round of bourbon as a toast, cheerfully clinking glasses, and a second to seal the case shut, finally. They hashed it all out again, what it meant for careers and Raylan's future in the Marshals Service. Tim contributed little, the scene with him and Colton playing out over and over in the splash of amber in the bottom of his fourth glass. He eyed that splash, agitated. If he finished it he wouldn't be able to hold back from ordering another. He ran a hand over his mouth and eyed that splash again, impatient, wishing the other three would leave so he could either finish it, go home and continue drinking there or maybe order another here. He started to fidget, nervous about letting his mind wander with any clarity. Raylan ordered a third, asking with a smile around at the others if anyone would like to join him. Tim nodded and the splash disappeared, a moment's respite while he waited for the next glass.

"Were you making that up?" Art was looking at him. "Tim?"

"Sorry?"

Art turned around, checked the scene behind him. "Thought maybe there was some pole dancing going on that I was missing."

"Nah, he's watching the bartender," Raylan said, smirking. "Making sure he don't short us on the shots."

Tim allowed half his face to grin, pointed at Raylan. "It's an arrangement we have. Whoever's facing the bar…" He rolled a hand and let Art and Rachel finish the statement for themselves.

Rachel was the only one not laughing.

Raylan took it back to the original topic. "Art was telling us about the conversation you had with Boyd's man, Colton Rhodes, when you had your little showdown on the highway. Didn't realize you were an aspiring novelist."

"Oh, yeah. It's my backup career choice in case they figure out I really don't know how to shoot."

"So were you making that up about him being an MP and losing somebody and getting into some confiscated drugs?" Art repeated the question.

"Nope. I made a few phone calls and got the details. It's biographical, that bit. Makes the story more realistic. I'm aiming for Top 10 on the New York Times bestsellers."

"Who'd he lose?" Raylan asked, liking a good tale.

"Friend. In Iraq. It happens."

"And he really called you Deputy Dawg?" Raylan grinned at the reference.

Tim nodded, made an amused face.

"And what was it you called him?" Art asked. "I couldn't make it out."

Tim hesitated, pushed his empty glass into the middle of the table, sat back in his chair. "Bagram," he said, unable to avoid answering.

The others had to lean in to hear it. Tim mumbled.

"I still can't understand you," Art repeated.

"Ba-gram." Tim said it again, harshly, getting angry.

"I don't get the reference."

"Something he said when I ran into him at the VA," Tim hedged. "Bagram's a shitty, dusty air base in Afghanistan. Should have set my novel there. You don't need many adjectives – just shitty and dusty."

"What were you doing at the Veteran's center?" Art pushed.

"Oh, it's always a good time at the VA," Tim replied. "I can't stay away." He stood abruptly and fished out his wallet, his fingers brushing up against the sunglasses. He dropped some money on the table and left before the waitress dealt out the next round.

* * *

Asleep on the couch with a movie playing later that evening, but not late enough, meant a poor sleep. And he paid for it, awakened by the violence in his own head at 3am, a nightmare he'd managed to forget about the past year. He curled up, replaying the scene with him and Colton, a loop, spinning, unproductive, spinning. He was angry with the man, jealous that he'd gone out on his own terms at Tim's expense. Why couldn't someone just shoot him instead? That would stop the loop.

He couldn't seem to stop it himself.

"That guy you shot, you good?"

The next morning wasn't making much sense, lack of sleep, a hangover, and something else hanging grotesquely distorted just outside his perception. But Raylan's words cut through. It was the offhand way he said it that cut, almost an afterthought. Raylan had things on his mind, a suspension, maybe a promotion, definitely a girl.

Tim got it. It was cool. He had no intention of unloading on Raylan anyway. What was the point? And besides, there was nothing he wanted to talk about. "He called it," he replied, matching casual for casual. He might as well have said _it was justified._ A loud rationalization to his ears but what the hell, Raylan wasn't really listening.

"Well, if you need someone to talk to," the older Marshal added absentmindedly, thinking about what he didn't know about babies.

"I got Rachel," Tim said, his voice down, down under Raylan's in perfect mimicry – "You got Rachel."

Rachel didn't even look over, distracted by pink. But that was okay, too. Tim wasn't going to unload on Rachel either. This was his. He owned it in a way they never could, not unless some country invaded the continental United States and made a run for Kentucky.

And he thought, _pink?_ That was the sort of inane topic that got him on edge. _Who the fuck cares what color you paint the baby's room? It's not likely to scar the kid for life. Paint it fucking orange_.

"I could've told him that," he grumbled, worried that everyone could read his anger, disguising it by hiding in the crowd.

He didn't look up when Raylan walked out. He envied him the suspension.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

After Raylan left the office, the bullpen rolled over lethargically into a kind of lull, the intermission in the show where everyone waited for the action to start up again, chatting quietly around the sink in the kitchenette or stalling at the copier for gossip. There was contented aimlessness in the movements, everyone milling, everyone but Tim. He couldn't switch off to be part of the lazy, languid morning. He couldn't fit in.

Each time the last cup of coffee was poured Tim would jump up to make fresh, grabbing the pot away from whoever had it. "I'm not in the mood today for your _shitty_ coffee," he'd grumble, irritated at the hapless offender, " _Get out of my way_."

Sometimes he would stay and stare at the coffee dripping into the pot, waiting for it to run through. Anyone who hadn't hightailed it out of the vicinity after the snarling would definitely clear out with the shell-shocked act.

The sound of the water sizzling and spitting against the heated glass reminded Tim of the timber rattlers he'd hear and see on occasion in the Kentucky forest growing up and that got him remembering the copperhead he'd run into once and then the sign surfaced, unbidden _...Behold I give unto you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions…_ And he was back in the church tent, pulling the trigger and watching the blood spurt out from a perfectly centered shot to the chest, the thin curl of smoke slithering up from the cigarette still burning, dropped onto the grass.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he spun around, startled, the cold glare he'd been liberally sharing with his coworkers already set in place. Art was holding out his mug, concerned eyes on Tim. Tim didn't miss a step – filled Art's mug and his own. The water, not all through the filter yet, dripped on the hot plate, hissing at him for his impatience. He slammed the pot back underneath to stop the noise and it sizzled and spit then stopped.

Art cleared his throat and Tim turned to face him again, reluctantly. The chief drew his eyebrows down, studied the younger Marshal before asking, "Everything okay?"

"I doubt it. I've only checked the local news today. They're probably still killing civilians in Syria."

Art treated Tim to a good copy of a Gutterson head tilt, gestured _come with me_ with a curled finger, turned and started for his office.

Petulant but obedient, Tim trudged behind Art and took a seat on his couch then deliberately slouched down and tucked the arm not holding the coffee tightly around himself.

Art shut the door; Tim pretended not to notice or care.

Art started the conversation. "I think I understand now why they make subordinates stand at attention in the military. The officers all have sidearms, right?"

Tim looked up, wary, nodded.

"Well if you're any indication of a typical sergeant, I figure the officers would shoot so many of their enlisted men just for pissing them off with their attitude they wouldn't have anyone left to fight a war. I'm going to repeat my question. Is everything okay with you?"

Art was speaking loudly by the end; Tim replied coolly, "No, everything is not okay. I'm seriously upset by the situation in Syria. They need to take all armed conflict into a civilian-free zone and let the soldiers shoot and bomb the shit out of each other there. And maybe it would be helpful too if the area was tiled with a nice big drain in the middle of the floor so afterward they could just hose it all down and wash all the blood and shit off." He let go of himself long enough to mimic water flowing down a drain with his free hand. "Then it would be all clean and ready for the next conflict. Red or brown tile would probably work best – less upsetting for the cleanup crew."

Tim's response got the reaction he was looking for. Art was left gaping. The only sound in the room not sucked into the void was their breathing, and it was loud enough to give Tim the feel of its uneasy rhythm. He'd pushed it a bit.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Art said finally, all trace of annoyance gone.

"I think I'd like a suspension, too."

Art sighed and leaned back against his desk. "You'd have to do something stupid first so I could write it up."

"Well that can't be hard. Raylan managed."

"You missing him already?"

"Thought I might go help him paint the baby's room."

"Somehow I think that would be a bad idea."

"You're probably right."

All sound evaporated again except the breathing and the two men sipped coffee to fill in the blank.

"I think we need to discuss what happened yesterday. Something about shooting that ex-MP bothering you?"

Art might sound like a hick when he wanted to but the man chose his words carefully. 'Ex-MP' was a deliberate reminder of Tim's connection to the dead man, another veteran, and one he'd crossed paths with. Tim had already confessed as much and Art was looking for regret.

"He raised his gun, Chief. The man was a professional. He left me no choice."

"Yeah, that sounds good, doesn't it?"

Tim took another sip of coffee, hiding behind his mug.

"Do you want a mindless job today to get you out of the office? You're scaring everybody."

"I don't know, do I?" Tim wasn't going to commit without hearing what it was – experience had taught him to be wary of Art's 'jobs'.

"It's either that or you and I sit here and talk until you tell me what's bothering you. But I should warn you, you agree to do this job for me and you'll only be delaying the inevitable – sooner or later you and I are going to have this discussion."

"Sure, I'll take the job. What do you got?" Tim realized too late that he hadn't denied that something needed talking about.

* * *

The halfway house was an older home nestled between a new condominium and another old house being used as a business. Parking the black SUV in front, Tim climbed out, checked his phone then walked up to the door and knocked. The man who answered was older but hard to tell by how much, clean cut and neatly dressed.

Tim held up his ID. "Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson. I'm here to pick up Walter Reynolds for a court appearance in Cincinnati."

"Well now that makes sense," the man said, an all-encompassing grin attached.

"I'm sorry?" It wasn't making sense to Tim.

"I wondered how Walt was going to make it to court in Cincinnati when his parole terms say he can't leave the state. You're going to escort him, right?"

"Right."

Tim figured there was some politics involved with this particular shuttle and babysitting service that he wasn't privy to and clearly neither was this man.

"I'm Brett Riley," he shot out a hand and gave Tim's a vigorous shake. "I work the day shift here, Monday to Friday. Come on in."

He led the way into the front room which served as an office, pointed to a chair. "I need you to sign in," he instructed, passing Tim a book for the purpose. "You're early. Walt's upstairs changing. I told him to shower and put on his best clothes for court. You got some paperwork for me?"

Tim hadn't taken the offered seat, signed the registry then did as thorough a check of the main floor as he could without being invited to. He peered down the hall from the doorway and settled finally against the wall beside a front window.

"I thought only veterans were so edgy about their surroundings. Marshals too, huh?" Brett was watching him grinning.

The photo on the desk answered the question Tim was about to ask – Brett in uniform. Tim recognized the street scene behind the soldier, a mosque in Kabul. He gave the picture a cursory nod, said, "Pul-e Khishti. You actually stood there long enough to take a nice picture? You suicidal?"

Brett's smile never dropped. "Hell, yeah. That was 2001, right after we took Kabul back, before the Taliban regrouped, you know. I guess you were there later?"

Tim nodded.

"Yeah, you're just a baby. You got there at the wrong time. You missed out on all the fun!"

Tim had to grin at that.

"We have a few veterans in here. I'm pushing to make it a veterans-only halfway house. I've got the VA on side with it now I just need to convince the Housing Coalition folks. I help the vets jump through all the right hoops to get their VA benefits and stuff once they're out and I run a weekly…I don't know what you'd call it…talk-out-the-shit session for them. They don't mind it 'cause I don't call it therapy. We just sit around and bitch mostly, exchange ideas."

Tim nodded again.

"Coming back, shit, it's a real mind-fuck, isn't it? It's almost easier being there. When you're there, _you're there_ , you know? But when you get back here, _you're still there_ and that's the mind-fuck. I still get all freaked out in traffic and it's been over five years now."

"Why'd you get out?"

"Medical discharge." With that he dropped his leg up on the desk he was sitting behind, pulled up a pant leg and showed off his prosthetic. "Carbon fiber. Best leg yet. People say to me, _you're lucky you still have a good leg_ , 'cause you know, some guys, they lost 'em both. I just reply, _and which is my good leg?"_ And he laughed. "Seriously, they make 'em better than they can grow 'em. No IED can hurt this baby." He rapped the pylon hard with his knuckles, laughed again. "What branch?"

"Rangers."

"Pussies."

"With that kind of delusional statement, I got to figure you for a Marine."

The grin was back on full. "Yeah. You're infantry then."

"Sniper."

"No shit." Brett pulled his leg off the desk and sat up straight. "I still see snipers when I walk the streets here."

And another nod. "Me too. And it took me a while to stop seeing IEDs in every pile of garbage on the side of the road." Tim shuffled a bit, looked back at the picture of the soldier, rubbed a hand up and down his face. "Who am I kidding – I still do."

It was Brett who nodded this time. He studied the Marshal a moment. "You should come."

"What?"

"To our meetings. You should come."

"I'm a US Marshal in case you missed the ID. These guys are parolees – they don't want me here. I'm on the other side."

"Brother, we're all on the other side, all of us, you included." He looked serious for the first time. "It'd be good for them to see you with your shit together but still dealing with the same shit they are. You'd be showing them that you can do it."

"Look, man, I still struggle with it."

"Exactly!"

Walter Reynolds walked into the room then and Tim and Brett looked over at him.

"Walt, you're in luck. This Marshal was in Afghanistan – with the Rangers." Brett looked extremely pleased with the morning when he turned back to face Tim. "Walt was a Marine in Vietnam."

Tim and Walt eyed each other cautiously, lawman and ex-con.

* * *

"I don't really care to be buddy-buddy with you, okay?" Walt spoke softly, leaning toward Tim slightly as they walked to the SUV, slipping it in under Brett's hearing who stood on the front step smiling.

Tim smirked. "Aww, and I was gonna give you my cell number after opening my heart and spilling my guts. BFFs."

Walt snorted. "Sorry to disappoint."

"I'll cope."

Walt hesitated at the car until Tim gestured impatiently, indicating that he walk around and get in. "You aren't in my custody, I'm just an overpriced chauffeur. Ex-cons get to open their own doors."

The man walked stiffly around to the passenger side and got in, eyed the pristine interior. "Nice vehicle. They must pay you well." Walt wasn't talking to be pleasant, the tone bled disdain.

Tim decided to end any conversation right there at the curb. "It's not mine. Company car on company time. I don't really care to get _shit_ all over my truck."

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Lifting the pressure off the accelerator, Tim let his foot hover over the brake pedal while he eyed the figure on the overpass. He saw Walt look over at him, a question on his face as they slowed down, no traffic ahead, not even at the river yet. Tim cursed his instincts silently. _There are no snipers in Covington_ , he told himself, but still kept a cautious eye on the bridge as he sped up again. The man standing at the rail turned and was walking west now, a dog on a leash pulling him. _There are no snipers in Covington,_ Tim repeated, wet his lips and reached for his coffee.

Walt broke the silence for the first time since leaving Lexington, peering out the very edge of his eyes at Tim. "You probably always wanted to be a cop growing up," he stated, his tone unfriendly and certain of his stereotype.

Tim knew better than to get into anything personal with Walt. He'd learned that lesson the hard way on a prisoner transport early in his career, but he felt he had to disavow the caricature the ex-con was drawing, allow him a peek at an outline.

"Never crossed my mind till I got back in the world." Enough said. He figured Walter Reynolds couldn't do much with that.

"Well how does it 'cross your mind' exactly?" Walt sneered. "Your daddy a cop? Or were you an MP?"

Two letters, MP, and Tim was thrown back into the church tent again, saw the gun coming up, felt his own trigger against an eager finger, tried to feel the feelings too, but couldn't get to them. He started to shake his head slowly and visualized himself turning around and marching out of that tent. He couldn't go there today, he had things to do.

Walt was still talking, took the head movement as Tim engaging and kept at him. "I never even heard of a US Marshal until I started getting into trouble."

_This is safe ground_ , Tim thought and joined in. "And that's exactly how it crossed my mind. I started getting into trouble."

"So you're Cinder-fucking-rella – up out of the gutter."

"Yep, that's me, Cinderella," Tim drawled. "You give me any trouble today and I'll break my glass boot on your ass."

Walt snorted a dismissal. "No, hold on, I got it mixed up. You're not Cinderella – you're Prince fucking Charming."

Tim was amused but holding back the laughter. Truthfully, he welcomed the insults, relieved to have a distraction from circus tents and imaginary snipers on overpasses. He scrambled to come up with a sarcastic retort, but his imagination failed him; it was stuck trying to picture Art Mullen as his fairy godmother.

His cell phone rang as he approached the bridge over the Ohio River and popped the picture of Art with fairy wings and a magic wand. Tim lifted the phone to his ear, not willing to share the call with his passenger. "Gutterson." The conversation was short. "Yeah, alright. Thanks for the heads up," then expressively, "Shit."

He tossed the phone on the console and sighed, annoyed, took the first exit into Cincinnati. "The trial's been postponed," he stated, continuing to drive, making turns with a purpose. "Seems one of the witnesses for the prosecution is in the hospital recovering from a fight. Probably a Marine." A few more turns and he pulled over to the curb and parked. "I'm not driving back without lunch first and I got no choice but to make you my date."

"I don't have any money."

"Well, lucky for you you're on a date with Prince Charming. I'll pay."

"I don't want your charity."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm kidding. Federal Government'll pick up the tab. Come on."

Tim stopped at the same diner he always stopped at on a road trip through Cincinnati. Raylan had introduced him to it, saying Art had introduced it to him. Tim was convinced that Art had a favorite diner in every town or city in every state – he knew them all. For Tim, it meant someplace familiar, someplace comfortable and safe; he was grateful for it. He walked in, ignored the waitress who wanted to seat them in a booth by the window, strode purposely to the back corner and settled himself facing the door. Walt and the waitress followed.

After they'd ordered Tim dropped a file he'd carried in with him beside his coffee and started flipping through it. "You just can't stay out, can you?" he said, looking across at the parolee. "You like institutions? Remind you of the military?"

"You know I've never met anyone who does asshole better than you."

Tim smirked. "From a man who's spent more than half his life in prison, I'll take that as a rave review."

The food came and Tim dug in, working his way through a sandwich, a mound of fries and pie, reading steadily, looking up only to watch when the bells on the door to the diner jangled and someone walked in. Traffic was steady at lunch hour.

"So your last stint was for a parole violation…second time." Tim shook his head. "You let a friend, and I use the term loosely, drag you up here to Cinci so he could shoot some asshole, another Marine, that he got into a fight with over a game of pool the week before? Same bar. Real smart. Let me guess, your friend a Marine too?"

Walt picked at his soup and sandwich, responded, "Like you said – a friend. Doubt you'd understand."

Tim figured he understood just fine. "What? You serve with him?"

"Keeping it tight. We weren't going to take it outside. It was a Marine problem and we Marines were going to deal with it." He squared himself off, challenging.

"Yeah, how'd that work out for you?"

"If you had a beef with ex-Army, Mr. ex-Ranger, would you go to the police?"

Tim paused with a forkful of pie heading for his mouth – _Bagram_. " _You sure you can't think of any connection, given your service background?" He watched them hoist Mark's body onto a gurney, shook his head, no. "Deputy Marshal Gutterson, if you think of anything, any window into this mess, you'll let us know?"_

"Didn't think so." Walt was watching, took a good deal away from the hesitation. He pushed his plate to the side, turned so he wasn't facing the Marshal anymore. "You finished your food? I'd like to get back. I'm a busy man."

* * *

Tim drove past the onramp for the interstate, headed into the city proper and pulled into the parking lot at the federal courthouse.

"What are we doing here?" Walt demanded. "I thought we were heading back."

"Out." Tim waved Walt onto the pavement, joined him and steered him into the building, past security and on up to the Cincinnati Marshals Office.

He knew a few of the Deputies – the Cinci and Lexington Bureaus often had colliding business – and greeted the woman closest with a genuine smile and a nod.

"Deputy Gutterson," she smiled back. "What brings you up here?"

"Hey, Carly. I need a favor. Are you going to be around for an hour or so?"

"I can be. Why?"

Tim did a two-handed gesture at his tag-a-long. "This is Mr. Walter Reynolds. I was escorting him up here so he could be a witness in a murder trial." He pouted. "The trial was postponed and I need to…I got something I got to do before I head back. Can I leave him here with you? I'll be quick."

Carly glanced at Walt and back at Tim, the question obvious.

Screwing up his face into a plea, Tim explained, "He's out of state and on parole. I can't leave him in the car. Please? It's personal business."

"Sure," she agreed, then leaned over her desk and whispered, "But you owe me."

"You want me to babysit the kids?"

"You?" She looked horrified. "I don't think so. Somehow, taking a two-year-old to the gun range just seems like a bad idea. I'll think of something else."

"Sit." Tim pointed out a chair for Walt, smiled a thank you at Carly.

"What the hell am I supposed to do for an hour?" Walt complained.

Tim ignored him, said to the Marshal as he backed toward the door, "Give him some brochures to read, maybe something on avoiding parole violations."

* * *

The snake gave him fair warning, the tail rattling a caution, but Tim got his face right up to it, curious. He could never understand people's fear of them. Men were scarier and less predictable – be afraid of them instead. A snake was just a snake, but a man could be a snake or a rat or a shark or an angry bear or a mean dog; a man could be a cold-blooded and calculating killer, a crocodile, or a vicious and hot-blooded beast, a rampaging bull. A snake just didn't want to be bothered, didn't want to be stepped on. A snake would never purposely cross your path gunning for a fight.

Tim liked snakes. He would catch them if he could when he was a boy, still did up at the old house. Not a rattler like this girl – those he'd leave alone, just happy to spot one and watch them from a safe distance – but a garter snake maybe, or a brown or hognose or milk snake was fair game. He was bitten once when he cornered a black kingsnake, a big one, a beauty. It didn't hurt at all – he was more startled at the speed of the strike – and he lost his fear of them after that.

The rattler got tired of the scrutiny and struck, harmlessly hitting the glass of the aquarium. Tim smiled.

"They suggested I get a pet. I don't think that's what they had in mind, eh, sarn't?"

Chuckling, uneasy, Tim straightened up and looked over at the kid, no the man, sitting on the couch. "Probably not." He rolled his eyes, grinned in return. "It's funny hearing you say _sarn't._ Brings it all back." Looking again at the snake he asked, "You got a name for it?"

"Haji," the owner replied, Specialist Burrows, or Gopher as they'd nicknamed him because of his surname, and because he would try to crawl under anything nearby when he heard gunfire the first month in Afghanistan, and then the name stuck as he switched on, full fast forward. _Go for it_ , he'd yell when they had to do something crazy – _go for_ , Gopher. Now he was back to hiding again, in his burrow.

_Haji_ , that wasn't good, wasn't even funny. Another uneasy chuckle from Tim. "Couldn't have come up with something better? How about calling him Lieutenant Crane? He was a snake."

"You mean Lieutenant _Pain_?"

And the laugh Tim got for the idea was well beyond what the joke warranted. Tim felt the uneasiness grow. He let his eyes drift around the shabby apartment, taking it all in. This visit was a promise to Mark that Tim had made the last time he'd seen him alive, a promise to come check in on Burrows next time he was in Cincinnati. Mark said Gopher wasn't doing too well and thought maybe his former sergeant could give him a talking to. Now Tim was seeing what Mark saw and he was glad he'd come but he didn't know what he could do to help.

He flipped through the day calendar on the desk in the corner. "You had an appointment yesterday at the clinic – how was it?"

"Oh, uh, I missed it. I forgot. I was watching a…a show."

"What show?"

Gopher shook his head. "I don't remember." He laughed hard again. "Must've been good, huh?"

TBI, Traumatic Brain Injury, chronic symptoms from it recognized late, and he wasn't getting the help he clearly needed – Mark had explained the situation to Tim when he asked him to go see for himself. Tim made a mental note to call the VA Medical Center in Cincinnati to get someone to come around.

He walked into Gopher's kitchen – couldn't remember his first name, maybe Ted – and opened the fridge. It reminded Tim of his own when he first moved back to Kentucky, beer and cold pizza. The cupboards were no better.

"When was the last time you went shopping, buddy?"

"I don't really go out much." Gopher shuffled into the kitchen to see what Tim was doing, was already heading back to the couch before Tim could close the cupboard door and respond.

"There's a store down the block. I'll go with you. Come on. It's nice out."

"Maybe you could go, sarn't. Would you mind? I'm kinda tired today."

"You should just call me Tim now, okay."

"Okay."

Tim wandered into the bathroom before he went for food, did a thorough check of the medicine cabinet, putting the names of any prescription drugs in his phone for reference. He left an hour later to pick up Walt and head back to Lexington, left some decent food in the fridge, left Gopher in his seat in front of the TV with the promise he'd be back.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

"Where are you?" Typical Art, straight at it.

Tim held his cell a little farther from his ear and replied, "Pulling into the parking lot, just back from Cinci. What's up?"

"Stay put. Do not come upstairs until I call you back."

Tim ended the call without another word; Art already had anyway. He slumped back in the car seat and raised an eyebrow then turned his head to watch the Marshals' entrance to the building. No one came out; no one went in. A few minutes passed and his phone rang again.

"Yeah," he answered, confused.

"Get up here."

The elevator was waiting and the ride up seemed unusually quick leaving Tim little time to prepare for an ambush, and that was what he was anticipating. His instincts didn't let him down.

Art was worked up, pacing in his office; Rachel just shrugged, said, "I would've said Raylan, but…" She looked meaningfully at his empty desk.

Art was so preoccupied he hadn't seen Tim walk in, and Tim took advantage of the bit of time spared him and asked Rachel, "Was someone just in here?" thinking about Art's cryptic message.

"Detective from Lexington homicide." Again a shrug. It wasn't an unusual occurrence.

Tim nodded and thought about Mark. _Jesus is coming soon._ When he looked back to the office Art was standing in the doorway. He cut into Tim's reverie.

"What are you doing dawdling by the door? Did you think we were throwing you a surprise party? Get in here… now."

* * *

Art began pacing again and the agitation was contagious. Tim had no desire to sit so he stayed on his feet, on his toes, crossed his arms and waited. He considered the possibility that LPD had made a connection that quickly between the murders at the dealer's house and the mess in Harlan. DNA, maybe.

"Don't you think you should've told me you had a conflict?" It was the second time that day the door was closed and Art's voice was opening up. "You shot and killed the man who murdered your friend. Just how do you think that looks? I'll tell you how it looks. It looks really bad. It looks way worse than Gary Hawkins lying dead on Raylan's ex-wife's front lawn – the ex-wife that he was sleeping with again."

"Chief, it was self-defense. And anyway, Colton Rhodes was caught up in the investigation that this whole office was focused on. How could we avoid him? It's just a coincidence that it was me ended up in that tent with him."

" _It's just a coincidence_ is not gonna fly if you suspected him, Tim. Bagram. You knew he was the one that killed your friend."

So Art had seen the homicide report, Mark's text to Tim. _Bagram_.

"I didn't _know_." Tim was hoping Art had forgotten Bagram – apparently not.

"But you clearly suspected. Why else would you call him 'Bagram'?" Art was rubbing his head furiously. "Why 'Bagram'?"

"When I went to meet my friend at the VA, Colton Rhodes was there. Said he had an appointment. I gotta think now, he was looking for a dealer. He had a cough, said it was Bagram Lung."

"Who else knows about your nickname for him?"

"Just you, and Raylan and Rachel. Did you mention it to the Detective?"

"No, I'm not stupid." Art stopped pacing long enough to level a hard look at Tim. "Any particular reason why _you_ didn't mention this to the Detective?"

Tim jammed his hands down into his pockets, let out a breath, shook his head – guilty. "I just… I just didn't want to go there and be wrong. I mean, he was a... They were all..." He wasn't sure if Art understood the bare reply but he noticed a softening.

"Anything that can come back to bite you?"

Tim considered the past few days, wagged his head. "Uh, I asked him if he'd killed my friend. The girls at the church tent, don't know if they'd remember."

"Shit. Great." Art continued pacing. "Well, it wasn't in their statements. Maybe it won't come up."

"And," Tim grimaced, looked Art straight on, "I confronted him before, two days ago in that tent, the day Raylan got Drew Thompson. He was assaulting that girl. I could've shot him then, Art. I didn't."

"Hell, Tim, what were you even doing there? Were you _looking_ for him?"

Tim made it up on the spot. "Not exactly. Raylan had two ideas about who paid to have Arlo killed – Dixie Mafia or Boyd Crowder. I told him I'd keep an eye on Boyd while he chased down some Dixie."

Art's features hardened again. He wasn't buying it. "You'd better hope Raylan backs you up on that if they ask him. And for God's sake, don't do anything stupid like sleep with the preacher girl, got it?"

Tim nodded vigorously, thought about Cassie. He didn't think she'd willingly be a witness against him, but who knows what the lawyers could get from her if they got her alone in a room.

"Tim, don't get me wrong here. That asshole tried to blow me up. I like my limbs intact, even with my bum knees. I'm happy you shot him. But was there anything you could've done to avoid it? Anything?"

"Well, I suppose I could've let him kill me. And then he could've shot Drew Thompson's girlfriend, Ellen Mae, and likely that girl, Cassie, too. He had no trouble shooting Mark just for being there. Would that have looked better for me?"

"Probably, yes. As Vasquez likes to point out, they can't put a dead man on trial." Art rubbed a finger and thumb across his eyes and then flattened his palm out over his forehead. "I don't want to scare you, but I think the odds of an AUSA showing up here to ask questions are pretty good. Dammit, I wish it wasn't you that shot him."

Tim worked his lips angrily, finally said, "Art, he forced my hand." Then he recited, "The necessity of self-defense: actions that are instant, overwhelming, leaving no choice of means, and no moment for deliberation." He ended it with a helpless shrug.

Art was looking at him strangely. "Where the hell did you get that from?"

"The UN Charter."

"You memorize the whole thing?"

"I thought I should get familiar with their view on warfare considering what was going on in Afghanistan when I was there. I'm pretty up on USMS policy too, now."

And that's when the glasses and the bottle came out. Art sat tiredly behind his desk and poured.

"Alright. From the top. Tell me about your friend."

Tim finally took a seat as well. "Mark." The name came out hot and cold and sat in dead air.

"Mark," Art said, respectful, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Tim. I understand you were trying to help him. The Detective said he was buying Oxy when he was murdered. You serve with him?" He unknowingly repeated Tim's question to Walt from that morning.

Tim nodded. _What Things Soever You Desire…_ What he desired was to forget.

* * *

Miljana was there when he got home. She was there too when he left that morning but he hadn't spoken to her. She was sleeping. Sometime in the late evening of the drunk the night before, after he had passed out on the couch, she had come home from a conference in Louisville. She was late. They were supposed to have dinner and he was supposed to cook but the only thing he'd accomplished in the kitchen that night was to fetch a bottle of bourbon and a glass and then he had sat on the couch and continued the drinking he'd started at the bar with Art, Raylan and Rachel.

At 3am, when the nightmare woke him, he'd found a blanket tucked around him. He'd tired of the walls after laying there a while with his spinning thoughts, went out and ran loops around Lexington until the sun started to peek through. He felt guilty about getting drunk and not cooking for Miljana the night before and put off seeing her, sneaking back into the house with the dawn light just to gather clean clothes, showered at work.

He wished by the end of the day that he'd waited and spoken with her. She would've understood if he'd explained. She had a way of looking at things.

The house smelled good like home cooking when he opened the door and he could hear her putting away dishes. The blanket was folded neatly on the couch. His anger rolled up out of nowhere.

He unpacked his weapons with sharp hard movements, threw his jacket on top of the blanket carelessly knocking them both into a heap on the floor. The phone rang as he walked into the kitchen and they both stared at it then Tim picked it up, cradle and all, and threw it hard against the cupboards and it shattered and fell and stopped ringing. It was the center of their attention while the cheap clock on the wall ticked off the seconds for what seemed like hours. Tim moved first, retreated back into the hall, driving both hands through his hair, then he was back in the kitchen.

"You were late getting home yesterday," he snapped.

"The lecture ran over. I texted you," she replied calmly. "Didn't you get it?"

"No!" But he remembered his phone pinging and not bothering to get up. "I was too drunk. I ignored it."

He looked anywhere but at her, his fists clenched tightly, then walked back into the hall and worked them loose on a door frame. Eventually he leaned his forehead on the wall and looked down at his knuckles, red and split, and felt stupid and still unable to settle himself. He appeared back in the doorway to the kitchen and looked at her helplessly, tried to stop the buzzing in his head and couldn't.

Miljana hadn't moved since the phone hit the wall, holding a fork and a spoon poised for the silverware drawer. She stared back at him, searching for clues. Finally she brought her hand up to her face and said, her voice husky with emotion, "I can hang a spoon on my nose. Look." And she did.

Tim stared at the spoon, breathing hard. Something gave in finally, something he'd been fighting with all day. He snorted and sobbed out a laugh and sank down onto the floor in the corner by the fridge, his face wet. She plunked herself beside him, spoon back in her hand, and pressed her cheek up against his unshaven cheek and whispered in his ear, "I love you."

"Shit. I don't know why." The tiredness molded the sentence into one long word.

"Because self-pity is so sexy," she breathed and bit his ear.

"Fuck off," he snarled and licked her face in retaliation.

"Thanks. Ew." Miljana punched his chest affectionately and wiped at her cheek then reached up and pulled her wine glass off the counter.

"Where's my beer, woman?" he demanded, grasping for some humor.

"You're blocking the fridge."

He flopped all the way down onto the floor and slid out of the way so she could open the door and grab a bottle off the shelf. She passed it to him and he unscrewed the lid, lifted his head and took a drink.

She watched him. "Feeling low?"

"All the way down to the floor, low," he drawled slowly.

"I can see that."

He chewed his lower lip a moment, took another swig from the bottle. "Do you remember Mark?"

"Your friend with the Oxy addiction?"

"Yeah. He was murdered last week. The guy who murdered him, shot him at his dealer's house – shit, he was buying again from this ex-marine," Tim explained, the disillusionment numbing the grief," – he killed the dealer, too, and I had to shoot him yesterday, ex-MP, Army." He drank more and turned to look at her, see if she was hearing him.

"So, an ex-Army MP murdered a drug-dealing ex-Marine _and_ the ex-Ranger he was selling to, your buddy, and you shot the ex-MP. That's three down, fast. I'm surprised you aren't on the floor in the cellar." She lay down and put her chin on his chest looking at him. "Feeling vulnerable?"

"I shot myself," Tim said. "I mean, it might as well have been me. It was like looking at myself in the mirror and pulling the trigger. That's what I'm seeing today and I can't stop."

"But it wasn't you. It was a not-you that you shot."

"A not-me?"

"Yes. Similar, but not equal. Not you."

"But not that far off me," he said and ran through all the names of the not-me's in his life, including Mark, Gopher, and then Colton.

"Maybe you should start looking for the differences in the reflections rather than the similarities."

"Maybe." He studied the ceiling, listened to the cheap clock ticking. "I can't hang a spoon off my nose," he declared.

"That's okay. We only need one person in the house with that skill."

"I had no idea you were so talented." He ran a hand through her hair and started counting blessings, started with her.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," she said. "I could have pointed out the differences for you between you and him. It's hard to see yourself clearly."

He felt a tightening, the necessity of armor when he thought about her there in that tent. His voice was hard. "Fuck. I would not have wanted you to see me do what I did."

She set her wine down, grabbed his shoulders and pulled herself up so her face was over his. "You are the same man right now who pulled the trigger yesterday."

He held her gaze; it was easy to hold, easy to balance on and he could adjust his footing without fear of falling. "Show me that spoon trick again."

And she did, leaning up on her elbows on the floor. Tim looked at her seriously, twitched an eyebrow and said, "There is no spoon."

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Tim didn't think he'd miss the rush and the risk of combat – knowing beyond a doubt that you were dead any second – but he did. Even as certain as he was when he scribbled his name on his release papers, he missed it. Adrenalin was a lure all shiny and bright and fresh every time. When you expected death in each moment you were free to do anything, risk lost its measure and only the goal mattered, the world felt and smelled and tasted sharp. There was a different kind of risk in living that he hadn't yet learned to like better, and there was a good chance he never would and that possibility gnawed at him when he was idle, or sat on the edge of his consciousness on a busy day, that thing hanging grotesquely distorted just outside his perception.

And Brett Riley wasn't helping. There were two messages left on Tim's desk when he returned from a morning of chasing dead-end leads for Rachel, both messages from Brett at the halfway house, both inviting him to the ex-military ex-cons' meeting the following night. Tim had no intention of going. He'd seen enough of fallen servicemen lately and on top of that he had discovered that being around his buddies from his Ranger days, or any ex-military, did nothing to fade out that thing hanging there – in fact it did quite the opposite, bringing it into focus and leaving him irritable, even more than usual. An hour in a room with men griping about how hard it was to adjust, likely who had never moved past their days as soldiers, would be torture. How to say 'no' nicely? Brett was a good guy and certainly deserved a respectful and considerate approach.

He sat like the sphinx, staring a question at his phone; it rang in answer so he picked it up.

"Gutterson."

"Hey, Deputy Gutterson. Brett Riley here."

The idea, a plan to appease the sunny-side up Brett, came as most good ideas do, all of a sudden as you're backed into a corner. He would throw him a bone, a bone named Gopher, show respect for Brett's work and get some assistance for a problem that he had no idea how to fix. "Hey Brett, I'm glad you called. I just got your messages. I've been out all morning."

"Great day not to be stuck inside. Sun's out and warm. I was sitting on the front step for a bit. Great day."

The enthusiasm bubbled out of the earpiece and Tim found himself smiling in response – a wasted social nicety over the phone especially when you had so few in stock to deal out. "Yeah, it's good to see the sun. Hey, uh, I can't do the meeting. I'm sorry. Work, you know. But I was hoping you might be able to help me with something, or at least offer some advice."

"Too bad you can't come," Brett said, sounding truly disappointed and stubbornly on target. "Maybe next time?"

"Yeah, we'll see."

"So what do you need help with?"

"You free for lunch?" Tim asked, not wanting to talk at his desk, his eyes scanning the office for listening ears.

"I can't really leave the house."

"I'll come to you. See you in half an hour?"

Tim arrived as promised with takeout and they went out front and sat on the step in the afternoon warmth and ate, Brett savoring each bite, Tim eating quickly, like someone would steal the moment and the food away if he didn't take ownership in a hurry, eyes watching the street warily. He finished first and started into the details of Theodore 'Gopher' Burrows. Brett was a good listener, nodding and interrupting with pertinent questions and eventually wiping his hands thoughtfully on his pants and squinting in the sunlight over at Tim.

"I'll drop in on him when I can. He needs help but I can't do much for him," Tim summarized, cradling his coffee. "I called the VA office in Cinci about him. I'll follow up with that, but…"

"I've got some good contacts at the VA. I'll chase it. Give me his address."

They spent the last part of their lunch talking about their experiences in Afghanistan. Brett gave out more detail than Tim who made only surface comments about sleeping quarters or breaking in new boots or new Rangers. Brett described how he lost his leg.

"I got a transfer to Bagram Air Base and a fucking IED blew under the back corner of my truck on my way up there from Kabul. We were lucky, man. I was the only one injured – my foot was just hanging there. They amputated up a ways below the knee so the prosthetic could be fitted easy, you know. Crazy shit." He shook his head, pointed at himself. "And I was Logistics, not even on the pointy end. That IED was the only action I saw and all I care to see, thank you very much."

"Fucking Bagram," Tim commiserated, "Landmines and Pizza Hut." Fear and anxiety flying in; anxiety and fear flying out. He didn't bother putting the last bit out there, but it was a mind-fuck alright.

Riding the elevator up to the Marshals floor afterward, Tim toyed with the idea that somehow when the doctors amputated Brett's leg, they managed to cut away the part of him still attached to his unit. Maybe. He seemed fine in his new life. The Ancient Greeks had assigned properties of emotions to their organs, believing them connected – anger in the liver, worry in the stomach, honesty in the throat, courage in the heart. If he, Tim, tried to have all the feelings removed that he still carried for his time in the military, cutting away his affected body parts, there would be little left to live on.

The elevator doors opened eventually at the floor to the Marshals Office, remained a moment that way, inviting, then started to slide closed again. Tim jammed a thumb on the 'open door' button, shaking himself from his reverie in time to save himself a trip back down to the lobby. He stepped out hoping no one was around to witness his inattention. The hallway was blissfully empty. He pushed through the doors into the office and stopped short. Raylan was in the conference room in a closed-door discussion with AUSA Vasquez. That too was a mind-fuck.

Tim maneuvered to his desk like he was walking one of the minefields at Bagram, sat in his seat hiding behind his computer screen and tried to ignore it all.

Raylan sauntered out later, stopping first at the conference room door to share a joke with Vasquez then walking past through the bullpen, sliding his eyes Tim's way and gifting him with a wink and a bare nod. He patted his Stetson on his head, turned and gave a four-fingered teasing wave in answer to Art's scowl and left.

Tim's legs twitched. He wanted to jump up and follow Raylan into the elevator with a dozen questions pressing, but he kept his rear glued to his chair and reread the screen that he'd reread countless times since sitting – United States Marshals Service Federal Fugitive Database, enter name or inmate ID number. Fuck.

Vasquez came out next, casually leaning into Art's office to get his attention, then walking in. He closed the door behind him and settled himself for another discussion. This one lasted for the longest fifteen minutes of Tim's short career as a Marshal and Art didn't look over at him once. Tim had no idea if that was a good sign or a really bad sign.

His cell rang – Miljana – and he answered, grateful for the distraction.

"Hey," she said, her voice like a Saturday morning, "I had a break. Thought I'd call and see how you were doing."

"Your timing is beyond epic. I think I'm watching my career unravel and everyone's alarmingly casual about it."

Tim watched Vasquez stand up and make for the door, Art following, shrugging, _smiling_. Was that a sincere smile? Miljana asked a question but Tim wasn't listening. Art opened the door for Vasquez and finally, finally glanced at Tim. Nothing. Tim could pick up nothing from the look. Vasquez walked straight out, middle of the floor, then changed direction suddenly mid-step, angled over toward him.

"Hold on a minute, sweetheart." Tim covered the phone, lifted both eyebrows with an effort, trying to look unconcerned.

"How very considerate of you to pick up the slack now that Deputy Givens is out of the office on suspension," Vasquez whispered loudly at him behind his hand. He smiled as he said, "I'll be back to talk to _you_ soon," and left.

Tim watched the lawyer walk away swinging his briefcase, turning to push open the door with his back. When he did, he looked straight at Tim and grinned. Tim grinned back until Vasquez was out of sight in the hallway then he dropped his head and closed his eyes.

"Tim?" from his cell, "Tim?"

"Tim," he was getting it in stereo, from Art's office, too.

* * *

"I gave him every opportunity to put his gun down." The words sounded defensive to Tim and he stopped talking.

"So it appears to the lawyers as well. Fortunately for you they're of the opinion that the bigger issue was getting Drew Thompson's cooperation and that it quite unfairly put you and this office on an unforeseeable collision course with your guy. Vasquez didn't even mention the fact that you'd confronted this Rhodes character earlier. Honestly, I think the investigation is just a formality." Art looked over his reading glasses, fatherly. "Keep your cool, Tim. Stick to the facts as they played out."

Tim nodded and Art moved on.

"That trial – the one in Cinci," the Chief leaned back in his chair dropping his glasses on his desk and treated himself to an end-of-a-long-day face rub, "– apparently there's been a development. Mr. Walter Reynolds needs an escort back to Ohio again tomorrow." He finished his scrubbing and looked at Tim. "Do you want to make the trip or do you want me to assign someone else?"

Tim screwed up his face in surprise at his own reply. "I'll do it."

"Okay. If you want to." Art yawned. "I'm meeting Raylan for drinks in an hour. You in?"

"Uh, yeah."

"I figured as much. Curious?"

"Shit, yes. Were they talking about the shooting?"

"Yep."

"Okay." A sigh. "I hate this shit."

"You know what?" Art said. "Me, too. We have a lot in common."

* * *

Raylan downed the first shot in one go, grimaced. "She says 'peach' but it looks like orange to me. I always thought there were just three primary colors, then three more secondary and three more after that. That's what nine colors, maybe? Nope, I was wrong – apparently there are thousands and I've got the paint chips to prove it."

Tim would describe the expression on Raylan's face as bemused, like he'd slipped and hit his head and woken up in an alternate reality, one with cribs and rocking chairs and random cooing. The teasing opportunities were varied and plentiful, but Tim had other things occupying his thoughts and the moment for sarcasm slid by empty.

Raylan noticed the lapse and commented on it. "Hey, don't let this thing with Vasquez get to you. Shit," and here he looked at Art and they shared a look that spoke of their vast experience compared with Tim's, "it's what they do. They have to investigate a shooting. It's policy – you know that. But the situation's black and white. They'll sign off on it." He waved over the waitress while he doled out confidence. "The guy was threatening folks with a gun. Remember how thorough a job they did with the Jess Timmons shooting? Same thing."

_But not the same thing,_ thought Tim. At least it felt completely different to him.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

"Say again?"

"Haji's missing."

"Oh… _shit."_ Tim glanced around at the floor. "Since when?"

"Since I went to feed her awhile ago," Gopher replied. He stood in the middle of the room, turning in a circle, flopped his arms out to the side and slapped them on his thighs, careless defeat. "Can you help me look for her, sarn't?"

"Jesus, Gopher," Tim cursed and chuckled in parallel, "you're lucky it's me and not Mark. He'd be screaming like a Marine and shooting at the furniture. How long ago is _a while?"_ Tim stepped gingerly into the room next to Burrows, crouched down and peered under the TV stand.

"I dunno – half an hour…maybe?"

"How did she escape? She distract you? Pull a gun? What?"

Gopher grinned at the ridiculousness of Tim's interrogation then owned up to the duller truth, "Nah, my show was on and I distracted myself. Forgot to put the lid back on." He put his hands on his hips and shrugged. "Every other time she's just hid out under the TV, right where you're looking. I guess it's warm there and she feels safe hidden like that."

" _Every other time?"_ Tim repeated, aghast.

A hapless smile from Burrows, then, "Hey, how is Mark? He came up to see me a few weeks back. Said he'd be by again soon."

Tim stood up and ran a hand across his mouth, ducked his head quickly then turned away from Gopher, looking for the snake and hiding his reaction. "Uh…guess you haven't heard – Mark's dead." He said it aloud but it didn't feel any realer. He was Prince fucking Charming alright, in some grim fairy tale.

"What? Aw, man, no way. Shit. What happened?"

"He was…" Tim hesitated, unwilling to speak ill of the dead, finally composed his features and turned back around. "He, uh… Did he tell you what was going on with him?" When Gopher shook his head blankly, Tim made a helpless gesture, searched for soft words that only made it harder to speak. "He was having problems with…" rolled his hand, "Oh, fuck it. He was using Oxy." Now that he'd said it, the rest came out in an angry rush. "He was fucking buying again. Got caught up in something at his dealer's house. Got himself shot for it."

Gopher looked hard at Tim then hard at the floor. "Shit. That helo accident, it really fucked him up, didn't it? That really fucked him up."

"He told you about that?"

"Heard it through the Ranger channels. You know how the guys talk. And he gave me the details when he was here and showed me his scar."

_The scar, yeah, the visible one_ , thought Tim. All he saw now when he met anyone connected to his past were body bags, wounds and scars, even on the guys with no evident trauma. Death, dying, dead. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the corpses from his view and replacing them with shapes from this moment – a snake and a gopher in a hole. "And what about you?" he asked, opening his eyes again. "How are you doing? Going to your appointments?"

Gopher didn't respond. He looked confused.

"You need to keep your appointments," Tim pushed. "Look, if you don't want to go alone, you call me and I'll drive up and take you, okay?"

Gopher still didn't respond, lost somewhere, somewhere over Tim's shoulder.

"Gopher?"

Burrows shifted his attention back and said, "Mark, man. _Fuck._ That's just wrong, getting shot here. That's fucked up."

Tim couldn't argue with that.

Burrows finally came around to Tim's question, offering assurances that failed at their job. "No, I'm good, sarn't. Really. Thanks for the offer though. But I'm good." He shrugged. "I remember hearing you got shipped out – bad concussion. You okay?"

"I dunno. I've got no one to do a before-and-after comparison of me except a bunch of Ranger assholes, and I wouldn't trust any of your judgments on personality. That'd be like asking an officer for directions – no fucking clue." Tim rolled his eyes expressively making light of it and got a laugh from Burrows. "Seriously, though, Gopher, you gotta keep your appointments with the therapist. It helps. I know."

" _You'd_ do therapy?" Blatant disbelief.

"I _did_ therapy. Still do. It's only an hour and bit up here from Lexington. You just say the word and I'll drive you."

"Yeah, okay. I'll let you know."

Tim didn't expect he would. He recognized the denial, watched as Burrows shut him out, turning away to concentrate on something else, closing the door on the topic. Tim sighed, resigned to leaving it to the professionals. They had a snake to locate. He was glad he'd worn his boots today.

And then he noticed Gopher's bare feet peeking out under his sweat pants, pointed and ordered, "For fuck's sake, put on some boots or something."

He heard a mumbled response to the command – _Sure thing, sarn't_ – and continued grumbling as Gopher shuffled into his bedroom. "I don't feel like driving you to the hospital and explaining how you got bit by a rattlesnake in downtown Cinci. It's probably illegal to own one here."

Tim walked the perimeter of the room then worked his way into the kitchen. He pulled out the fridge, smacking his head on an open cupboard door as he backed up. Rubbing the sore spot, he thought about the concussion he'd suffered. It had taken a while for the symptoms to subside, weeks. The doctor at the base in Germany had made him copies of his medical records when he found out that Tim was filing his discharge papers, told him to keep them safe in case he ever needed to make a claim. Tim hadn't needed them, fortunately, but the doctor must have had cause to worry to go to the trouble of fixing him up with duplicates. Maybe he had an extraordinarily thick skull – Miljana would agree with that assessment – but he'd had no lasting problems. The medical records, insurance of sorts, a good luck charm, were still in a box in a drawer along with all the other shit that he hid, mostly from himself.

He walked back into the main room and toed around the edge of the couch, kicking gently at the skirt, stopped abruptly when he heard the telltale rattle, soft, a warning. She was at the back corner. He pulled a classic Gutterson head tilt for an empty room.

"Gopher," he called, "you got any handler's gear?"

Gopher reappeared carrying a pair of worn boots and a snake tong.

"Those'll work better _on_ ," Tim huffed, pointing at the boots and grabbing the stick. "She's right here." He pointed down and flicked the skirt with his foot, aggravating the snake enough to start her rattling again. "You tip the couch and I'll grab her."

But Haji had other plans, the second the roof over her head started moving she made a dash for the TV. Gopher dropped the couch laughing at Tim as he cursed and chased her across the floor. Tim got hold of her finally, the tongs near enough to her head that she couldn't reach him as she angrily writhed and struck repeatedly back at him. And Tim was laughing now too, enjoying himself. The two men struggled awkwardly to get her into the aquarium without hurting her. Haji was not happy and she made it difficult but eventually they got her back in her home and the lid on securely and flopped onto the couch, edgy chuckles.

"For fuck's sake, you idiot! Get a fucking kitten next time."

"Sarn't, admit it – that was fun. And you cannot have fun like that with a kitten."

"You fucker," Tim swore at Burrows, and they started laughing again.

* * *

He ran the steps two at time and walked quickly to the courtroom. Slipping in quietly, he looked around. Walt Reynolds wasn't there. One of the Marshals on duty recognized Tim and his purpose and subtly pointed up. Tim nodded a thanks and made his way to the Cinci Marshals Office wishing he'd thought to pick up a bribe for Carly. Some chocolate – she liked chocolate.

"Stop apologizing," she interrupted when he burst through the doors and rushed over to her desk, contrite and babbling excuses. "I was just doing my job. We had to take him into custody." She flicked the end of her pen toward the prisoner cell behind her. "He broke his parole…again or before or something."

Tim was surprised by a flicker of guilt – the thought crossed his mind that he might've prevented this if he had stayed with Walt. "How?" was all he could think to say.

"Apparently he was the one who had the gun used in the murder," Carly explained. "He told the judge he bought it in Lexington and brought it up here with him." She pretended to be scandalized, said, "That's a serious breach of his parole terms. And that changes the case completely. Now the murder isn't premeditated and your boy may be indicted."

"That's bullshit," Tim blurted out, absolutely certain and entirely uncertain why. "He's lying."

"And that lie is not my problem," Carly stated. "He says he's bought another handgun since he got out this time and it's in his room in Lexington." She held out her pen for Tim and a release form, all business, said, "Sign here, honey," and stood up. "You want him cuffed?"

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

"What, Prince Charming, no cuffs?" Walt shouldered Tim as he walked past out the door of the courthouse.

"Yeah, well, you just go right on ahead and make a run for it and see how far you get. I'll put a bullet in your back." Tim's reply was met with a disdainful silence. "Maybe I'll let you get a good 40 or 50 yards, make it a challenge for me."

Walt stopped; it was Tim's turn to shoulder him as he passed by, not slowing. It was immature, but it felt good.

"You could not hit me with a handgun at 40 yards," Walt stated aggressively. "You're not that good."

Tim stopped then too, pulled his sidearm and chambered a round. He waved across the street, daring. "Go on then, old man. Let's just see."

"You don't seriously think you could?"

"I _know_ I could. It might take a few rounds before you stopped breathing – you'd be well beyond the effective range of this gun – but that's what you want, right?"

"Fuck you," Walt snapped and started again for the car.

Tim glanced at Walt, feeling more defeat in himself than anything he heard in Walt's backing-down curse. "Yeah, fuck you, too," he said under his breath.

He stared in the direction he'd run if he were the convict then paced the distance out in his mind – 30, 40, 50 yards – imagining the point at which he'd have to start running too, to close the gap and make a bullet count. He holstered his weapon finally and jogged to catch up, couldn't help himself and kept needling. "You in a hurry or something? Oh shit, right, sorry man. You must be keen to get behind bars again. Do you need to pick up anything at the house first or should we just go straight to the lock-up?"

The stiffness in Walt's gait reminded Tim of the first time he waved the man into the SUV. There was no satisfaction in it for Tim this time though, no victory.

The drive seemed long and the run of pavement under the wheels, usually soothing, was relentlessly dreary, depressing. Someone had painted words of encouragement, or a threat, on the side of their barn facing the highway – _Jesus is coming_ – and behind the barn the owner was burning unwanted brush and leaves, a thin curl of smoke slithering up. Another nudge into the circus tent and Tim willingly let his mind slip this time, back to that endless moment facing Colton Rhodes. He imagined how good that cigarette must have tasted to a man knowingly facing his death, and enviously dwelt on the luxury of orchestrating the last minutes of your life. Mark hadn't had that luxury, nor all the dead Tim had seen in Afghanistan, soldiers and civilians, no grace, no tasty cigarette for any of them. He was envious too that he would likely never find something that tasted so sweet as that cigarette and it soured his mood. It soured even the imagined taste of that first sip of bourbon that tantalized, waiting for him at the end of the day.

The thought set up a craving for a drink and it came on strong and sudden but Tim pushed it away for later, decided to treat Walt to one more decent meal out in the world. He pulled off the highway into Lexington and headed for one of Art's favorite diners.

"Now what?" Walt demanded when Tim parked on the street.

"Now you get to be the fairy tale princess," Tim drawled. "Another date with Prince fucking Charming before the wicked witch locks you in the tower."

"I'd rather go straight to the tower, thank you. I ain't hungry"

"So order a coffee. I missed lunch."

Walt ordered more than a coffee, picked at a piece of pie while Tim ate. Finally he set down his fork loudly and said, "Why didn't you just drop me at the lock-up?"

"I thought you'd like a good meal before you went back." Tim looked down at Walt's plate of pie and ice cream, made a wry face. "Maybe not nutritious, but tasty at least."

"And why the fuck would it matter to you?"

Tim hesitated, trying to figure out how to explain the need for some grace back in his world. Walt smirked.

"You didn't have to order," Tim said eventually, lamely.

Walt took the last bite of pie and ate it with exaggerated and insincere joy.

It pissed Tim off and he went at him again. "Tell me you don't really believe that guy your buddy shot deserved to die over a pool game. Why are you lying to help that piece of shit?"

"Oh, so that's what this fancy lunch is all about." Walt waved his hand around the old diner. "You're trying to save my soul."

"Couldn't give a fuck, Walt. I just want to see your asshole friend get murder one. I know you're lying about that gun."

Walt shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I read your friend's sheet. The guy's the worst kind of asshole." Tim listed the offenses, ended with, "…and he's been up for assault five times, even aggravated sexual assault once."

"That didn't stick."

"Yeah, we've all heard a story just like it. The defense lawyer attacked her character on the stand and swayed the jury. So she's a prostitute. A guy can beat a woman and that's okay as long as she's a whore and he's a good friend. It fucking makes me sick."

Walt pushed his plate to the side, crossed his arms, angry.

"This isn't the jungle anymore. You're really going to do this for him?" Tim pushed. "You're alright with the fact that your _friend_ walked into a bar, locked and loaded, confronted this guy, pulled and shot him?"

"He wasn't carrying. It was my gun."

"That's _bullshit._ For some fucked up reason, you're lying to help him. Did you know the dead guy was a marine, too? Thirty-five years old, a wife and kids. Where's the solidarity, huh? How is that okay with you? Tell me. I'd love to know." And then it was Walt's turn to hesitate and Tim was happy to see it. "It doesn't have to go this way. Nothing he's done for you makes you owe him this. Tell the truth, or at least stay out of it and let the asshole get what he deserves."

"You're starting to sound like Brett."

"Trust me, I am not Brett. I _suck_ at making lemonade." Tim dropped the remainder of his sandwich on the plate, slid out of the booth and made his way up to the cashier to pay, wondering why he hadn't just dropped Walt at the lock-up.

* * *

You could make body armor from the disappointment on Brett's face, it was that thick. Tim watched the reaction when he asked Brett to search Walt's room for a weapon. It felt annoyingly like this was his fault somehow, like Brett blamed him when he came down with the gun after a minute, set it on his desk without a word, watched sadly while Tim bagged it. Walt had told them exactly where to find it. It was all very convenient.

The bullpen was quiet when Tim arrived back and he was relieved. Rachel had been trying to corner him the last few days, that look in her eye. He wrote up the report on Walt, had a quick word with Art, mumbled a lie about an errand and slipped out just after five.

Miljana called while he was walking home, inviting him to join her and her friends for a drink and dinner. He declined, made excuses of being too tired but truthfully he didn't feel it would be fair to drag down the evening, not the way he was feeling. Sometimes it was just a numbness that faded after a drink or two or a run or an hour at the range maybe or a bit of time with Miljana or even Rachel or Art. Sometimes it went past that and the world started to feel too tight like it did today and everything pissed him off, mountains out of molehills, everything trite taunting. Sometimes it went further even and the world slowed to an infuriating crawl and he tried desperately to push and pull the whole weight of it along at the pace he felt it should be moving, the pace he was moving at, fast and reckless, a full adrenalin-spiking rush, and the frustration grew to a full body scream. Those times the only way he could slow himself again and match his stride with the rest of the world's was to drink until he fell. It didn't happen much anymore, at least not in a while.

But he could feel it coming. He didn't change up his pace walking home or up the steps or putting on his running gear and going, and going and going. Miljana's car was parked in front of the house when he got back from his run. The world still felt too tight but he wasn't quite so out of sync with it now and he figured a drink might do the trick to slow him that last bit.

"Hey," he called out, kicking off his shoes and heading to the kitchen. "I thought you were going out."

"Changed my mind," she replied lightly. "I'm fickle."

The last word he would ever use to describe her was fickle. She was home because she could feel it coming, too. He knew it when she strode purposefully into him, wrapped her arms around his chest and squeezed him tightly, trying too to slow him down, hold him still, fit him back into her world. And then she let go and slipped her arms around his neck and let him hold onto her.

"I ordered Thai," she said.

"Something spicy, I hope."

"The one with _all_ the little chilies filled in."

He smiled. "Good. I'm starving."

"I'm going to have that engraved on your tombstone – _He was starving."_

The sadness blew through him then and he felt the anger stirring, wishing he could be happier for her sake. "You should meet up with your friends. Go on. I'm fine."

She let go. "Bourbon?"

"Miljana."

"Bourbon it is. I'll join you. See what you've done?" She tut-tutted and poured.

"Seriously, go."

She ignored him. "Tell me about your week. Start at last Wednesday."

Last Wednesday, a phone call from Lexington Homicide, a body bag. "Can't hide much from you, can I?" He accepted the bourbon and took a mouthful. It wasn't what he hoped it would be. He would bet his Beretta that it didn't taste as good as that cigarette. He washed it down with the rest of the glassful. "What do you want to hear? I guess I could give you a timeline, list off facts and events. That's boring, though."

"Nothing's boring to a psychologist," she dared him. "I could read fantasies and dark thoughts into a grocery list with just a little imagination." She poured him another shot, took his hand and pulled him to the couch. "If you want to just give me the facts – that's fine. Or, I guess you could tell me a story, some make-believe, but make it exciting or I'll fall asleep."

"A story?"

"Once upon a time…" she started for him, smiling, sarcastic.

"Once upon a time," he repeated, no smile but some sarcasm back, "there was a grumpy US Marshal named Prince fucking Charming."

She clapped her hands, made her mouth into an 'O' in anticipation, said, "Yay! I love a flawed hero."

He tilted his head, acknowledging the jab. "You know what I'm going to put on your tombstone? _Do not disturb. Sarcasm at rest."_

"I'll haunt you."

He tried and failed to make a joke of it. "Get in line. There are a few ghosts ahead of you."

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

_"Once upon a time there was a grumpy US Marshal named Prince fucking Charming who went on a journey to a far off land. He was thirsty and drank from a well which unbeknownst to him had a spell cast upon it by a wicked witch. The spell was an evil one, causing everyone loved by the Prince to die a sad, brutal and lonely death. And if that wasn't evil enough, the spell also made the Prince himself invincible yet powerless to prevent the death of his friends."_

" _Stop! Sranje!"_

The clock read 2:07am. Tim lay awake running the story in his head that he'd told to Miljana, his voice flat even in the retelling. He had no idea where it came from, just that it did. He smiled again at her reaction. When she swore at him in English, it was affectionate; when she swore at him in Serbian, she was pissed off. She didn't like the story, didn't wait to hear if it had a happy ending. Of course, it didn't. How could it? Even if he managed to shake off the curse, Prince fucking Charming could never bring back the dead. Cheating death was cheating life.

He rolled over and watched the clock until it glowed 3am then slipped out of bed and went running. Back an hour later he stretched out on top of the covers and stared at the ceiling thinking about what he had to do that day. Probably he'd throw himself into Rachel's case, help her out, unless Art had another job for him. Or maybe this would be the day that Vasquez came for a chat. Tim stepped through the events as they happened, treading like a death march inexorably toward the shooting of Colton Rhodes. He worked on phrasing each sentence he would use in the interview with the AUSA to make the entire episode seem random, unintentional. Maybe 'fateful' was a better word, but not 'planned.' You had to have a clear purpose to plan something and that's why most murders were not premeditated. People just didn't go about intending to kill someone. He'd had no clear purpose when he confronted Colton Rhodes and nothing was clear even with hindsight.

And what would he have done if Colton hadn't raised his weapon?

He snapped awake with a lingering picture of Miljana standing under the church tent, bodies piled at her feet. He tried to recall the expression on her face but couldn't and felt desperation welling up.

The clock read 5:27am.

He thought he might as well get up...and then Miljana was calling him, waking him, standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

"Are you going in today?" she asked, dressed and ready for work.

The clock read 8:15am.

"Shit. I'm late." He rolled out of bed, scrubbing his head with both hands until his hair stood straight up just to get a laugh from her.

It worked and she walked over, pushed him onto his back and squeezed up against him, nuzzled his neck, chuckling.

"You're not that late. Relax. Have breakfast. I went by the bakery yesterday."

Tim followed her downstairs, reaching out to play her hair through his fingers, following her movements while she gathered her things to leave, watching the expression on her face intently. She looked up at him finally, quizzical. He forced a grin, turned to walk into the kitchen and started rifling through the baked goods on the counter.

"You must've lived through the Depression in a past life," Miljana commented, leaning on the fridge, amused when he almost succeeded at stuffing a pastry whole into his mouth, "or the Great Potato Famine or maybe you were in Leningrad during the war." He rolled his eyes, stuffed in another. "Maybe all three," she decided.

He spoke around his chewing, "And you, I think, were a gunslinger in the Wild West or maybe part of Genghis Khan's horde, or both. That's why you like living with me. Somewhere deep down in your psyche you miss it, the killing, want to get close to it again."

She considered the possibility. "You might be right. Have you considered psychology for a profession?"

"Nah, I'd just shoot all my patients."

* * *

Tim decided to drive into work, took a left turn where he should've taken a right and ended up at the lock-up. He texted Art, saying he'd be in later, headed through the doors into the jail and asked for an interview with Walter Reynolds. Walter looked tired, and not happy to see the Marshal.

"You come to rescue me?" he said. "Guess you defeated the giant ogre at the gate."

"Where'd you buy the gun?"

"What? No howdy-do?"

Tim hadn't bothered to sit, not intending to stay long. He eyed Walt from his spot against the far wall, leaning. "You look good in orange."

"Fuck you, asshole."

"I think we've had this conversation before."

Walt sat down, slumped into the chair and slid his hands along the table. "Why do you want to know where I bought my gun?"

Tim shrugged. "Maybe I want to buy one. I'm looking for a referral. And I trust your judgment."

Walt sighed, pushed the chair back onto two legs and teetered, said lazily, "I don't recall."

"You intentionally violated your parole, purposely, actually, just so I could put you back here. It was so deliberate, I don't believe for a minute that you don't remember where you bought that gun." Tim spoke in an even, paced voice. Bored.

"You really like making shit up, don't you? You got this whole make-believe world you live in." Walt shook his head slowly. "I told the judge about my new gun 'cause I knew after I confessed to buying one last time I was out that you assholes were going to search my room anyway. I thought I'd save you some time. I just like having a gun."

"Where'd you buy it?"

Walt tossed some bored back at Tim. "Might've been that pawn shop off of Versailles Road."

"You buy the murder weapon there, too?"

Walt shrugged. "I don't remember. That was a while ago."

"Yeah, a whole six months."

Tim knew the pawn shop, knew it would be a wasted trip but made the drive out to the west side of Lexington and asked the owner if he remembered Walt.

"Yeah, yeah, sold him a Smith and Wesson Model 10 couple of days ago – nothing special."

Tim nodded, right gun. "You sell him another one earlier? Sometime 'bout six months ago? Automatic?"

"Oh hell, I don't remember."

"Didn't think you would. Thanks for your time."

Tim knew no more than he already knew. The murder weapon had had the serial number scratched off, Walt's new revolver didn't, and the owner of this pawn shop didn't seem the illegal weapons sales sort. Just in case, he stopped by Lexington PD and asked a few questions about the shop and wasn't surprised to learn that it had never been investigated. And he still only knew what he knew and that was that the gun used to kill the man at the bar was not Walt's.

He knew that, but had no idea why he should care.

* * *

The back of Vasquez' head in the Chief's office and Art waving at him was what greeted Tim when he arrived at work. He looked to Rachel for some bolstering but her desk was empty. He kept his eyes straight ahead and obeyed the summons. There wasn't anyone else in the bullpen whom he cared to make eye contact with – it was too much like being naked – but Rachel had seen his bared soul and hadn't taken advantage or been dismissive or laughed. His emotions were safe there, if not always understood. Perhaps it was time to stop avoiding her.

"Morning, Tim. Get the information you needed?"

If the AUSA hadn't been in the room, Art would have dealt out a wonderfully facetious comment about Tim's absence that morning. But clearly solidarity was a priority and the straight-forward question provided a bit of the bolstering Tim was looking for.

He smiled, grateful, and replied, "Not really."

"What're you working on?" Vasquez inquired, standing to shake Tim's hand.

"I got a guy perjuring himself in front of a judge in a murder trial, hoping to lessen the charges for his buddy, I guess. I don't really expect to prove it but I thought I'd check out a few things."

Art nodded, distracted. "Well, our friendly neighborhood attorney here has a question for you pertaining to the Rhodes shooting. Should I leave you two to it?"

"Nah," Vasquez waved him down, "I just want to clarify something. I only need a minute." He turned and addressed Tim. "I've been interviewing the three witnesses, had a long chat with Miss Cassie St. Cyr. Nice girl – had nothing but good things to say about you, Deputy." He paused and grinned slyly.

Tim snorted, chewed his bottom lip, made a face that broadcast to the attorney that he caught the implication. "I have a girlfriend. She keeps me plenty busy."

"Yeah, I've heard about her. The courthouse rumor mill is vicious. She was your therapist, wasn't she?" That same sly grin, a little wider this time. "You must get tired of having your head read."

"At least she doesn't try to hide what she's doing when she does."

Vasquez drew back looking hurt, a bit of theater. "I don't know what you mean by that," he said, smiling broadly.

Tim raised his eyebrows and Vasquez raised his hands in surrender.

"I'll leave your girlfriend to her job. Let's get back to the shooting. Miss St. Cyr told me that you were at her brother's church earlier in the week, 'came to her rescue' is how she put it. Said you had a confrontation that day with the same Mr. Colton Rhodes that you shot a few days later."

"That's right." Tim swallowed hard.

"Well, what she and I couldn't figure out is what you were doing there. I mean, good timing, but what reason did you have to be there that day?"

* * *

"So you had a run in with Colton Rhodes the day I had Mosley down in Harlan." Raylan studied Tim, sizing him up. "And I get stuck in another pow-wow with Vasquez on my holiday."

"You mean suspension," Tim corrected, face unreadable.

Raylan ignored him, raised his eyebrows. "Might've mentioned it earlier so I could've prepared."

"I did," Tim said, swirling the bourbon in his glass, watching it.

"No, you didn't."

"That was a big day for you, Raylan," Tim explained, still studying the amber. "Closing in on Drew Thompson. Probably slipped your mind."

Raylan leaned forward, trying to get closer to the truth. "Why didn't you shoot him then, Tim? The girl said he had his gun out. What stopped you?"

"Too easy." It came out too fast, too careless.

_"Too easy."_ Raylan mimicked, sly grin. "You could use that excuse every time you point a loaded gun at someone. Hasn't stopped you before."

Tim finally raised his eyes and locked them with Raylan's, challenging. Neither man would start the mud slinging and the silence was thick.

The waitress interrupted and Raylan looked away, ordered another round and when she left again said, "Well, next time you go gunning for someone, Tim, for Christ's sake give me the head's up. Vasquez was watching my reaction awful close. I figure he was hoping I'd give up something so he could chase you."

"I wasn't _gunning_ for anyone." Tim finished the last of his bourbon and waited for Raylan to continue. He didn't want to know, didn't ask, was desperate to hear it.

"I recalled the conversation you and I had when Art told you to track me down – you saying you had business in Harlan, offering to help me out."

Art interjected at this point, turned an accusing finger at Tim. "Wait a minute. You told me you couldn't reach him."

Both Tim and Raylan looked over at Art, surprised , like they'd forgotten he was sitting with them. Tim grinned, placating, tried to put some sheepish on.

Raylan chuckled at the expression and finally gave Tim what he was waiting for. "I told Vasquez you were following Boyd's gang for me."

Tim nodded, relief climbing up out of his stomach and burning his throat. "Did he buy it?"

"Oh, I think so. I'm a talented actor."

Art interjected a second time. "You mean a talented _liar."_

"Yeah, well, same thing," said Raylan. "Though he had the audacity to question why you would take orders from me when I was doing something at the time that was marginally unethical" – Art snorted – "and earned me a suspension." Raylan leaned over and added in a stage whisper, "I said I threatened you."

"You threatened me?" Tim sat back, grinning. "With what?"

"With leaking evidence that you were selling weapons-grade plutonium to high school kids."

Art scowled at Tim. "You've got nuclear capability and you were messing around with a Molotov cocktail?"

"It's a finesse thing, boss. You wouldn't understand."

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Vasquez slipped his pen into his folder and closed it. "Well, Deputy Gutterson, thank you for your time. I think that's that."

"That's that?" Tim was hoping for more clarity.

"Well, obviously my office is going to sign off on the shooting. You have witnesses corroborating your version of the events; the man was armed and threatening you. But you do understand that given the circumstances, I had to be thorough."

Vasquez stood and shrugged and Tim almost jumped out his chair to be free of the room.

"And," the lawyer continued his summary, postponing Tim's escape, "unlike Deputy Givens' situation with Tommy Bucks, the man you shot was threatening someone other than just you." Vasquez made a comical face. "Believe it or not, that's helpful in your defense."

The amnesty felt a little sour to Tim. "You'd have just signed off on it if I'd let him murder somebody first – waited for him to kill the prostitute and screw up the federal case with Drew Thompson and then shot him."

"Uh, yup. That's pretty much the shitty truth." Vasquez zipped up his folder and tucked it under his arm. "Makes you actually sympathize with the CIA and their hate-on for oversight committees, doesn't it? Poor bastards. My heart goes out to them." He shook his head, mock-sorrow, a sigh that wouldn't have been out of place in a silent movie. "But, hey, I'll bet you're glad the asshole that shot your friend's dead, right?"

Tim was caught off-guard by the blunt question, he looked over at the window, reaching for some distance but the blinds were tilted up to block the morning sun and he couldn't see much.

Vasquez pushed for a reaction with a smile of conspiracy. "Right? I mean, come on, we all cheered when Deputy Givens shot Tommy Bucks in Miami."

It was true. There was a silent roar of approval and whispered gleeful conversations from this side of the business when word got out that Raylan had gunned down Tommy Bucks and in so spectacular a fashion. Everyone had wished they'd had the balls to do it. And after the IED incident with the convoy in Harlan, no one in law enforcement in Kentucky was mourning the death of Colton Rhodes. But it still didn't sit well with Tim.

"I don't know what made Tommy Bucks the man he was," he replied finally, "but I _get_ what pushed Colton Rhodes in the way of my bullet. Just a fraction of an inch, a second too late, too early…when you're in the shit...that's all it takes." Tim turned to face Vasquez, slid his hands into his pockets. "Excuse me if I don't feel like cheering, but like he said, if you go back enough times, bad things happen. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No, Deputy, I don't. I have no idea. I've only seen war from a comfortable chair."

Tim searched the lawyer's face, looking for scorn and finding none. Vasquez stuck out a hand and Tim reached over and shook it.

"Stay out of trouble," Vasquez quipped, heading for the door.

Art had come out of his office when he saw the interview was winding up, overheard the parting shot, said to the AUSA, "If everyone followed your advice, we'd be out of a job."

Vasquez spun lightly on his feet, walked backwards grinning widely. "Chief," he said, "I only say that to cops and US Marshals. It'd be a dull world without lawyers in it, wouldn't it, Deputy Gutterson?"

Art waited until Vasquez was completely out of the Marshals Office before turning to Tim and saying, "Well, you can stop looking so guilty now."

"If I do, will I stop _feeling_ guilty?"

"You feel guilty? Seriously? After he tried to blow up this beautiful body?" Art did a comic hand sweep, head to toe.

Tim twitched a shoulder. "Yeah, I'll get over it."

"Get over it quick, will you? We've got work to do."

Tim trudged to his desk studying the floor on the way, looked up when someone put out a hand and stopped him. It was Rachel.

"What?" she said. "You don't look happy."

"No, yeah, it's fine."

She arched an eyebrow. "Which is it? 'No' or 'yeah?' You clear on the shooting?"

"Yeah, I'm clear."

She didn't look surprised. "Coffee?"

"Uh…"

"Tim, whenever you and Rachel are finished your dance class…" Art signaled for him to join him in his office. "I got something I need your _expert opinion_ on."

Tim muttered to Rachel, "I hate the way he says that."

"Better go," Rachel commanded. "I make it a rule not to dance with boys wearing boots and you don't look very light on your feet today."

She walked back to her desk and Tim trudged into Art's office, hands back in his pockets.

"Chin up, Buckaroo. A visit like that from the AUSA's office usually leaves people feeling happy. You look like a cartoon character with a…" and Art waved a hand up over his head, "a dark cloud following you around."

Tim cocked his head. "Yeah, I'm aware of that cloud. I've been cursed by an evil witch. You know anyone who knows a counter spell for that sort of thing?"

Art stared, scrutinized. "Are you delusional or just melodramatic?"

"Oh, yeah, that's me – drama queen." Tim brushed it off, crossed his arms, took his post by the door.

But Art decided today was the day to dig. "What's with you? Sit down. Let's talk about this."

Tim sat. "Chief, I'm already talking to someone about this."

"Well, tell her to hurry up and exorcise whatever's eating you. I don't understand you. How many kill shots have you had to make since joining the Marshals? And you usually just breeze into my office after with a 'I don't miss' and a 'where's the next target?' look on your face. What's different about this one?" Art waited a beat then said, "Tim, he murdered your friend."

"I know!" Tim threw his arms in the air. "I'm thrilled I shot the bastard, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

"No. I want to hear what's eating you."

"They were both drug addicts!" Tim had both arms out, reaching, pleading for some understanding.

Art just shook his head. "We get a lot of that in this line of work."

The begging hands drew back and over his face, and Tim schooled his features back to neutral. "What do you need me to look at?"

"Uh-uh. Not until you tell me what's bothering you about this. Was it or was it not a justifiable shooting?"

_Private, was there a threat?_

_Sir, there were kids running between the vehicle and the…_

_Private, answer the goddamn question. Was there a threat?!_

_Yessir._

_Then fire your goddamn weapon next time! Are we clear?_

_Yessir. Loud and clear._

Quietly, "It was justifiable," then Tim pressed his lips together.

Art continued to scrutinize Tim's face. Defeated, he picked up a folder from his desk and handed it over. "There's been a hunting accident down in Noble's Holler."

"A hunting accident? We're looking at hunting accidents now?"

"The interim Harlan Sheriff sent it up." Art paused, said in an off-hand manner, "Gee, you know, they've had bad luck with sheriffs. It's like Juarez down there…only different. Anyway, the Sheriff doesn't think it was an accident, wants it investigated. She specifically asked that the sniper up in the Lexington Marshals Office have a look and see what he thinks. That's you, by the way."

"Thanks for clearing that up. I thought you meant the other sniper in the office."

Art was staring again and Tim started fidgeting.

"You look tired, Tim," Art said after a moment.

"I'm fine."

"Take the rest of the day."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

* * *

Tim hoped Miljana was free for an hour and dropped by her work to see her. She greeted him with a smile and he followed her into her office, stopped just inside the door, shut it and looked around. "You rearranged your furniture," he stated. It made him angry.

She stepped in front of him, hands on her hips, expecting a fight. "You don't like it."

"It sucks."

"Yes, it does," she agreed. "I'm seeing more veterans since I moved in with you – word gets out – and a few followed me from my sessions at the VA Center."

Miljana had reversed the room, her chair now closest to the door, and Tim knew exactly why – in case she needed a quick escape from a violent patient.

His words were biting, he gestured around the room aggressively. "Well, don't think they won't know exactly what this means. Jesus, we may be fucked up but we're not _stupid."_

"Fuck you, asshole," she said evenly, snapped her fingers, pointed at the chair farthest from the door. "If you're going to bring your shit to my office and spread it around then you can have a seat and talk to me about your shit."

He took a step back, held up the bag he was carrying, two sandwiches from the deli. "I was going to take you out. It's a nice day." She kept pointing so he slunk over to the chair and dropped into it.

"Are you really angry with me for rearranging the office or are you angry because I needed to?"

Tim wet his lips, acknowledged the truth with a head tilt. "Fair enough."

"And are you really angry about the furniture or are you angry about something else? Why are you here?"

"Art sent me home."

"Were you a bad boy?"

"I'm never a bad boy. He said I looked tired."

"He's right, you do look tired. You've been midnight running." She gave him a minute to respond to that and when he didn't she continued. "Why are you angry?"

He set the bag on the table between them and stared at it.

"Tim?"

"I'm angry that you needed to do this, okay?" He yelled it. "I already admitted as much."

There was a knock at the door, Miljana's business partner, another psychologist, urgent. "Miljana? Is everything alright?"

"Just fine, thanks," she replied calmly, watching Tim.

The interruption knocked Tim's anger off its course and he found himself looking underneath it at the shadows there. He watched the shadows under the office door too, waiting until they disappeared and he and Miljana were alone again.

Miljana walked around and pushed the sandwich bag over, sat down on the low table so her knees brushed against Tim's and said, "I'm not afraid of you. You know that, right? I'm just afraid for you. What are you so angry about?"

He didn't want her afraid; he didn't want to be angry at her anymore. He confessed a secret. "I hate them. It's like they're all just dragging me down. I _hate_ them. After I got out, do you know how hard it was for me to find something to like about this? To find something to believe was worth the trouble? I mean, just getting up in the morning? Fuck." He started twisting his fingers together. "Sometimes I think I should tell Art to take away my weapons. I think, one more fucked up vet and I'll start shooting them on sight just to keep them from taking hold and dragging me under." His voice cut with an edge of desperation, ragged. "I can tell who they are – I spot them a mile away – and I can't let them get to me. I can't. I fucking hate them."

"It takes a lot of energy to hate something," she said.

"It takes a lot of energy to get out of bed some days."

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Tim stood in the doorway of the apartment. He couldn't see clearly, couldn't think. He felt like he was at the bottom of a swimming pool, the weight crushing, the room blurred, drowning in it. His eyes drifted from the body over to the TV, an afternoon talk show jumbling nonsense, noise through water, again to the body slumped on the couch, head resting on the seatback, asleep Tim had thought at first glance until his eyes continued past to the drops of red on the wall behind, on the glass of the aquarium. He felt a jolt of panic, a gut-wrenching dread, and it yanked him back to the surface. Did he pull the trigger, acting out his hatred? Tim was suddenly afraid of what he was capable of. He could see himself holding his gun, aiming, firing. The violence before him was jumbled in his head with the shooting in the church tent, reflections of each criss-crossing, and he couldn't separate anything. Gopher's body, draped so familiarly, blurred into Colton's then Mark's and back again. A cold anxiety invaded and Tim talked to calm himself, working backward over the events of the past day, backward from this moment, walking through everything he'd done the last twenty-four hours. It couldn't have been him. He kept shaking his head. It couldn't. He pulled his sidearm and checked the rounds just to be sure, counted them twice to counter the doubt. Fifteen plus one; fifteen plus one. And once more – fifteen plus one.

He breathed to steady himself then worked methodically forward in time, step by step, retracing his movements again back to the present. He was still unsatisfied, forced detachment and from where he stood frozen in the doorway he looked carefully over the scene. It couldn't have been him he realized when he spotted an unfamiliar handgun dropped after the fact, lying in Gopher's lap where it landed, slipped from his hand when his arm went limp. It was a tidy shot executed by a man who knew how to kill cleanly, who had put some thought into how best to do it, and Tim, calmer, could see it now for what it was, a quick death to put an end to suffering. Gopher had opted out.

Tim's legs begged off and he turned away from the view inside and slid his back down the frame of the door. His jacket caught on the strike plate and he fumbled to unhook himself before sinking all the way down to the floor.

He wondered if it could possibly get worse, or better for that matter. He slipped his gun back into the holster, pulled out his phone, dialed the police and reported a suicide.

* * *

"We served together," Tim explained numbly to the officer, Cincinnati Police. "Me and another vet, a guy named Brett Riley, we were trying to get him help. Brett called me this morning saying that someone from the VA had been by here twice and no one had answered. I called – Gopher didn't pick up – so I made the trip up to check on him." He hooked a thumb back in the direction of the apartment door. "I had to pick the lock," he finished and rubbed his eyes.

"Didn't cross your mind that he might just be out somewhere?" the officer suggested, unaware, ignorant.

Tim shook his head, no. "He never went out."

Furrowed brows at that statement. "Did he ever mention to you that he was thinking of suicide?"

"No," Tim paused and thought back, added heavily, "not that I'm surprised."

"We're probably going to need to talk to you again. We can reach you at the Lexington Marshals Office?"

Tim dug into a pocket and handed the man his card, his contact information. His phone rang then and he checked the display, said to the officer, "It's my boss, uh, the Lexington Bureau Chief. Can you give me a minute?"

"Sure, go ahead. We're done here for now anyway."

Tim spoke into his phone, "Yeah," and walked away down the hall.

"Tim, you almost finished with your personal business?"

Tim looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm finished."

"I'm reading your report on that hunting accident down in Noble's Holler. Are you sure there are too many ducks in a row for it to be a lucky shot – I mean an _unlucky_ shot?"

Tim rubbed his forehead trying to get his thoughts in order and focus on an event that seemed to have happened a lifetime ago. He wrote that report yesterday, dropped it on Art's desk this morning. "No, I'm not 100% sure. I think…I think I said it could've been a lucky shot."

"Don't believe it, though, do you?"

"Uh, no, no, not really."

Art paused, "Well, there's been another accident." When Tim didn't respond Art continued, "Are you in Cincinnati still?"

"Yeah."

"Carly at the Cinci Bureau called looking for you – something about Walter Reynolds and the murder trial. Why don't you stop in and see her. We'll head down to Harlan tomorrow, you and me, check on these hunting accidents. I think they're keen for a sniper's perspective on this and I'm just plain curious."

"Sure, okay." He hung up, distracted at the end thinking about Haji.

Tim waited until they'd cleared Gopher's body out of the apartment, standing pressed against the wall while they wheeled the gurney past, then he walked back down the hall and tapped the shoulder of the officer in charge.

"What are you going to do with the snake?"

The officer stared back blankly. "Snake? What snake?"

"Oh, fuck." Tim stepped past him into the living room, checked first under the TV stand.

The officer followed him in, his tone rising with his concern, repeating himself, "What snake?"

Tim gestured to the empty aquarium. "That snake."

The officer's eyes shifted to where Tim indicated, then back to the marshal. "There's no snake."

"No shit."

The locals watched, curious, as Tim went into the bedroom and came out a few minutes later with the snake tongs.

"What kind of snake?" one of them asked, his voice pitched high.

"Rattler."

The apartment emptied.

* * *

"I could've told you over the phone," Carly laughed, standing and greeting Tim when he appeared in front of her desk. "You didn't just drive all the way up here, did you?"

Tim wrenched a weak grin out of his face, "No." He shook his head.

"You alright?" She looked a little closer.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"I was just going to relay some news about your tagalong, Walt Reynolds. I feel bad that you dragged yourself in. What are you doing up here?"

"Personal stuff."

The sparseness of the replies made her inquire again, "You sure you're alright?"

Tim wrenched out another grin. "I'm fine. Walt?"

"Yeah, um," she fished around on her desk and pulled out some papers. "I was going to send these down to you. They're sending an official from the court to finish taking Walt's statement in Kentucky. I figured since you were already in on the proceedings it'd be you handling it. He should have a lawyer present."

"Why would they bother doing that?"

"He's got cancer – liver, lungs, brain. It's spread all over. He had a seizure yesterday. The man's dying. They're giving him maybe a month, tops."

"Oh." Tim thought back to their lunches at the diners, Walt picking at his food. "Shit."

"Gutterson, are you sure you're alright? You don't look alright."

Tim stared back from a long way away, reminded himself to breathe.

* * *

Herpetologist – that was the word for a snake expert and Tim didn't know any, and he certainly wasn't one himself, but he knew his local snakes and Gopher's was a local, a timber rattler. When he could focus on anything on the drive back it was the snake. He kept tilting his head up to see into the back seat, trying to catch a glimpse of the aquarium in his rearview mirror, checking the lid was tightly on and running through options for dealing with its contents. He decided as he approached Lexington that he'd take it up to his old house near Campton and let it go. It was up to the snake then to survive or not, and that choice had to be better than the confinement of four walls and a ceiling – even if the freedom only lasted for a brief while.

When he backed through the doors carrying the aquarium just about everyone in the bullpen backed up too, away from him. Art was the only one who approached.

"This is your personal business? You bought a snake?"

The look on Tim's face was enough information though not an answer, and Art rolled his eyes. "In my office, please." Tim made to follow and Art barked, "Not the snake – just you."

After he'd perched the aquarium on the shelf behind his desk, Rachel watching in horror, Tim shot her a glare and said, "Keep an eye on her, will you?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Thanks," he snapped and went in to see Art.

"What the hell, Tim?" the Chief asked all his questions in one.

"I told the terrified locals in Cinci I'd deal with it. They were being _stupid."_

"This is you dealing with it? Bringing it in here? And what were you doing with the police in Cinci?"

Tim couldn't sustain the angry face and it collapsed in on itself. He didn't want to talk about it, not now. His eyes darted frantically around the room. He pulled tighter on the tethers holding his emotions and they raged against their restraints.

Art tiptoed around him and closed the blinds and the door. He took Tim by the elbow and guided him to a seat then did what was needed – he poured and waited.

"Tim," he said finally, "if you're gonna blow, I want you to do it right here where I got a chance to throw myself on the grenade. I don't think the US Marshals Service has enough insurance to cover the damage you could do otherwise." He waited again, a dozen heartbeats, a few more, then asked, "What do you need?"

"I don't know."

Another beat. "What happened?"

Tim reached for the bourbon and downed the glass, wiped a hand across his lips. "He shot himself…sometime last night."

"Who did?"

"Gopher. This kid that served under me."

"You found him."

Tim nodded; Art heaved a sigh thinking of the damage done.

"And that's his snake?"

Tim nodded again, pulled in tighter.

Art nodded with him, sat heavily in a chair opposite. "So what makes you different, Tim? They're dropping like flies around you, don't think I haven't noticed. What makes you the survivor?"

"I don't know."

"Well, whatever it is, son, don't wish it away." Art filled the empty glasses. "Maybe it's genetics or good influences or maybe it's just blind luck, or maybe you're just too plain stupid to realize that you're supposed to be tripping up and falling down like the others. But whatever, you be grateful for it and hang on to it like your life depends on it. I suspect it does."

Tim downed the second glass and sank a little more into the cushions of the sofa.

Art kept a wary eye on his deputy, decided there was no countdown to worry about today and flicked a quick glance to check the time. "Ah, what the hell," he muttered and poured Tim a third. That was something at least – Tim wasn't a mean drunk.

"I'll drive you home in a bit," Art added, "…you _and_ the snake."

They sat for a while, sipping. Art studiously avoided looking at Tim now to give him time to collect himself, give the alcohol time to spread some calm before he broached the topic again. And when the air felt still, he looked over and opened his mouth to say something profound and supportive and Tim was asleep. Art tried to recall the details of the job description that he signed when he took the Chief's chair. He didn't remember anything like this being listed in his duties. He tiptoed out of his office and went to have a closer look at the snake.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

The ground was alive, roiling, twisting. The only way to safety was over it and he had to make a move; he had to get to cover. He took a chance and a step and the ground took shape, the mass separating, outlines sharpening into a thousand snakes, churning endlessly, the feel of them aggressive against his legs. He waited for the sting of fangs, knowing it would be a better end than the alternative. What was behind them, chasing them, petrified him. He couldn't name it, but he was more terrified of it than he was of the way forward. He turned back to his team. _Follow me._ _We have to go this way._ Another step. The desperation started to build when he realized that no one else would take this path. He looked back over his shoulder and waved them on. _It's safe._ We have to get to cover. He heard her voice first, turned, and she appeared suddenly with the team, calling out to him, _Tim_ , and his desperation grew and the more it grew the more agitated the snakes became, boiling up from someplace unseen, multiplying. She called again and he turned but couldn't see her anymore, couldn't see any of them, a sea of serpents to the horizon. He yelled out to them, pointed across, frantic. _We have to..._

_Tim._

_We have to go, NOW._

_Tim._

_I hate these fucking dreams!_

_Tim._

He started awake.

Miljana was sipping a coffee, his Ranger mug – the one from his desk at work. She smiled at his confusion.

"Hey," he said, voice croaking. He glanced at his feet, around at the floor.

"Hey, yourself. Sleeping on the job?" He knew better than to answer and she carried on blithely, "So, Art tells me we're bringing a snake home." She said it lightly, softly. "What's the name of that movie with all the snakes on the plane?"

" _Snakes on a Plane_ ," he answered automatically.

She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "You're kidding."

He shook his head, still trying to clear it.

"Well, do you think our guest would like that one? We could order pizza and a dead mouse, snuggle up on the couch, the three of us. We have tequila at home, don't we? It seems to me that a rattle snake would drink tequila. I've never entertained one, though."

Tim sat up, took in his surroundings, the bracing sarcasm. An apology formed in the angle of his eyebrows, the twist of his mouth. She smiled again; he said, "It's a she."

"Really? You checked?"

"Nope, didn't have to. I could tell."

"How?"

" _She_ doesn't like being told what to do."

Miljana's smile grew.

The bantering was easy for him, a soothing rhythm to it that dulled the edge as he remembered what landed him here, asleep on Art's couch. _On the instant when we come to realize that tragedy is second-hand,_ he thought, and repeated it aloud for her, to explain everything.

"What's that from?" she asked.

"I don't remember, but it stuck with me. Seems like something that fits your profession."

"It does, in a million different interpretations." She mulled it over.

"What are you doing here?" Tim asked. "Did Art call you?"

A small shake of her head and her smile faded, sadness weighing down the corners. "He answered when I called your desk." She leaned forward, purposefully drew the corners of her mouth back up and whispered, "I thought it was you on the phone and there was an embarrassing moment when I went into detail about my plans for you tonight..." She grinned mischievously and was rewarded with a half-hearted smirk. She continued more seriously, "Art explained what happened. I told him I'd come by and drive you home since, knowing him, I suspect he joined you for the drinks."

He nodded, distracted, and sank back into his thoughts.

Miljana tried again to keep him on the surface, buoyant in the deep water. "He looks pretty funny sitting at your desk, like he's wearing something a few sizes too small."

"Can we drive out now?" he said, no preamble, no explanation.

"Where?"

"Campton."

She realized his intention in the time it took for a breath. "You want to be rid of Gopher's snake." It was a statement of understanding. "Sure. I doubt we could find a pizza joint that has dead mouse on the menu anyway."

Tim stood and she stood too and pulled him in close, briefly, and then he pulled away before anything could break. She reached for him again and he pulled back further.

"I can't…please." He took another step back, more distance, wet his lips, said, "It's you, you know? I just…I gotta be able to walk out of here."

She tucked it all away, drew herself up and gave him a bolstering smile. _"You_ wrangle the snake. I'll drive." She turned her back and collected her jacket and bag. "Should we invite Art over later? He seemed rather keen when I thought it was you and…"

"Stop! I know you're joking just...stop."

But she got a weak laugh from him and he walked into the bullpen at least looking like he had his shit together.

* * *

Tim set the aquarium beside a fallen tree up the hill behind the old house, set the lid to the side and stepped back. Haji didn't seem excited to explore – too cold for a reptile – so Tim slid the container next to the trunk with his foot and toppled it onto its side. She came out slowly, cautiously, tongue testing the air and the freedom, then she disappeared in a sudden flurry of twists under the tree. A small part of her still showed, mottled brown and gray, blending. Tim sat down on the log, careless of the proximity to the snake and let his senses wander the forest for a moment's peace. He wondered why he ever left, wondered at being so naive as to think that anything that happened here could have been worse than what he ran to. Experience had a price and the price was regret. But without experience you'd never learn the difference between present and past and the past then would hold no value for you and you'd instead regret the absence of experience. His thinking ran that circle until he stopped seeing or listening to the forest at all and everything agitated and reminded. He could find no solace in the trees today.

He got up and walked back down the hill.

* * *

Her legs were mesmerizing and she used and abused their power – devastating, the effect. Tim often thought she was too smart by half and that was much of the lure. Hers were not race horse legs, running on forever, but they were smooth and softly shaped with a nice amount of muscle and curve and they ended right where they were supposed to, at her hips and a bit of elastic on some distractingly colored panties. He could spend an entire baseball game just appreciating those legs, tracing the lines. Some days though, time or need didn't permit the luxury and the colorful panties ended up on the floor in a hurry.

She was waiting, wearing just a T-shirt, standing enticing him in the doorway when he came back down the hill. The legs drew his eyes immediately and he caught a glimpse of a color he didn't have a name for showing at the hem of her shirt, just a bit showing like Haji hidden in the forest. That color was a needed distraction right now. She was too smart by half.

He was feeling greedy today, desperate for some of that grace back, and his fingers went straight for the color, mind grasping. He ran his hand around over her hip to the soft flesh at the back and he pressed her tight to him, lifting her just off her toes and they stumbled, kissing frantically, into the bedroom. He would eat her whole if he could, swallow her like a snake eating its prey, just to keep anything from taking her away from him. Mouth open wide he pushed his face into her neck and felt her pulse with his tongue. She was alive.

They slithered awkwardly out of the rest of their clothes, both aware that this was not romance today. This was not duty or staging or scheduled or even erotic. This was functional, needy, primal, for Tim, possessive.

The house was closed up, warm in the sun, their skin soon slick with sweat. Slipping hands along her side, he could smell blood where there was none, feel blood in the sweat between them, warm, pumping, paused and wiped it off his hands onto the sheets. Wetness was everywhere and he pushed inside her, greed overriding, closed his eyes and heard gunfire, more blood on his hands, invisible but there, the tang smell surrounding and overwhelming. He wiped his hands again harshly on the sheets, sobbed and groaned together and he pushed again to get as close as he could to her and fear pushed back at him and he pulled away, opening his eyes to make sure, reassure himself it wasn't hers and her eyes were closed and he panicked, breathing hard, short, pulled back more.  There was no blood.

"Tim?" She ran her hands up his arms to his shoulders to his cheeks, his wet hair. "Tim?"

"Jesus fucking Christ," he sobbed again, sat up then rolled beside her and curled into himself, into a ball.

She got as close as she could, smoothed her hands on his hair and kissed him.

* * *

"You're here for the meeting," Brett exclaimed, happy, always happy. "So you got my message."

"No, no," Tim rushed his words, eager to set things straight. "No, I just stopped by, just for a minute. It's been a long day, but I needed to tell you some stuff, in person."

Brett wasn't prepared to hear the denial, wouldn't see the warning in the skittering eyes, talked over him, grabbed Tim's arm to pull him fully into the front room where a few men were seated. "The meeting started late so you're fine. Come on in. Guys, this is Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson." He beamed. "He was a Ranger in Afghanistan."

How many times had Tim heard that? And for all the good it did him he resented having to hear it again. "Brett," he interrupted, snapped, "I need to talk to you in private."

"There's nothing you can't say in front of these guys. They need to hear the truth. They want to hear the truth. Don't you, guys?"

 _Everybody wants to hear the truth until they do_ , Tim thought, feeling his anger kicking. _Fine, here's your truth._ "Walt's got cancer. And he won't be coming back. He's admitted to providing the murder weapon. He'll die in jail." He was relieved to see the news had wiped the grin off Brett's face. If it hadn't, he might've felt the need to wipe it off another way.

One of the men stood up slowly, shuffled over, up in Tim's face while Brett was distracted digesting the news. "You say it like you're pleased," he growled low down.

"Oh, yeah, totally. Saves me having to shoot him later for something stupid." Tim raised his eyebrows at the man, hoping he might take a swing – a fight was a pleasant option in his current frame of mind – but it came only to hard looks and that wasn't much to satisfy. "I gotta go," Tim said.

Brett was staring at him, disappointed, but with Walt or with him Tim couldn't guess and didn't much care. He figured he'd call tomorrow and tell him about Gopher. He wanted out of there. He turned away and felt a hand on his shoulder, jerked back around, tense.

"Well, what can you do for him?" Brett demanded, certain there was more.

"Do for him? I can't do anything for him. He's fucked himself good. About all I can do for any of these assholes is put a bullet in them when they step out of line. That's what I do and I don't kid myself that I can do anything else. But whatever works for you, man…" Hands up, he backed out heading for the door, done with it all.

"Fuck you, asshole," this from the one with the attitude, still standing close enough to smell.

"That's funny coming from you," Tim snarled, inviting. "You're so busy fucking yourself."

That's when the fist came at him and Tim dodged it neatly but couldn't dodge the 200lbs that followed and he was pushed hard into a wall. A second man jumped in, joining the tangle and Brett grabbed at him to hold him off. A fist or two made contact before the front door opened and every man froze, stunned by the sound of a woman's voice.

"Stop it!" Miljana yelled to get their attention then spoke quietly, "What are you all doing? Grow up."

Everyone scrambled to their feet, Brett still holding one of his parolees. The man who'd taken the first swing twitched and Tim brought his hands up defensively. Miljana stepped between them.

"We're leaving." She grabbed Tim's shirt and pulled. "Now!"

Brett followed them out onto the step, puffing. "I don't think you're welcome here anymore."

Tim turned back. "Well, I'm happy to see you're finally getting the picture. I was never welcome here."

"Can't you see a way past all your anger?" Brett demanded.

"Past all my anger? Are you for real? Jesus, you must have some serious blinders on if you can't see that it's wall to wall anger in there. You're living in it."

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

It was an exercise in futility but Tim tried to put the last twenty-four hours behind him on the short trip into work. He had a hard glaze of forced optimism slapped haphazardly over the rawness when he arrived, first in, almost.

"What is wrong with you?" Art bellowed from his office.

Through the glass wall, Tim could see the Chief alone at his desk and not on the phone. He wondered who Art was yelling at, turned to see if Raylan had followed him in through the door though it was just over a week into his month-long suspension. He moved his eyes over the rest of the bullpen, looking for a cowboy hat, looking for anything.

"I'm talking to you, Tim," Art was out of his chair and filling his doorway, pointed a threatening finger. "I was on the phone at the ass-crack of dawn getting an earful from a fellow named Brett Riley, works at a half-way house here in Lexington," hands now on his hips, "You know him? On second thought, don't answer that – it might incriminate you."

Tim stopped where he was, opposite Raylan's desk – something in the air there fit the circumstances. He could feel a tightening on his cheek where a knuckle had split the skin in the scuffle the night before. No chance to hide it now.

"Let me inform you of the charges you're facing." Art strode across the room like an angry rhino. "You've been accused of being an asshole…and I'm going to add 'stupid' to it. You've been accused of being a stupid asshole. Mind you that's not exactly how he said it – I wrote it all down but I'm taking the liberty of _paraphrasing."_

Art was close enough now that Tim could tell he'd had a coffee that morning and the boss didn't look just angry, he looked upset, too. Rarely was Art upset. It was the second time in less than two weeks that Art was yelling, and at Tim, and that was cause for concern because last week was the first time he'd ever been yelled at by Art. _Where's Raylan when you need him?_ Tim thought.

The tirade was still going. "I can't deal with this right now. If I suspend you – which, by the way, is the obvious move – I'm down two Marshals and that's not fair to the rest of the crew. And I really don't think punishment is going to help whatever it is that's interfering with your brain function. Can't you just…" He finished with some furious and vague hand gestures and a growl and an expressive, "Aw, shit. What am I going to do with you? You I don't understand."

Tim could only joke. It was all he had. The hard-glaze optimism was already worn off in spots. "Is it too early in the morning for bourbon?"

Art opened his mouth then closed it when two other Marshals walked in. The look he leveled at Tim was clear defeat. "Make me a decent pot of coffee and pour two mugs," he said quietly. "I'll be waiting in my office."

The water hissed and spit and Tim stood staring through the coffee pot, willfully ignoring the desperation that was working its way through him, carried along on the nerve pathways, making his skin tingle uncomfortably. Ten minutes later Art was closing the door behind him and Tim set one mug on the desk and carried the other to a chair opposite and tried to get comfortable. There were papers out in a neat pile and Art fidgeted with the one on top.

"The way I see it, we have three options."

Tim liked the way Art said 'we', like they were in this together. If anyone else had said it he would've slugged them but he figured Art truly meant it, even if it was bullshit.

"One, I order a psych eval and likely you end up on medical leave and it goes in your file; two, you take _yourself_ for a psych eval and take advantage of the EAP – it's confidential through the Marshals Service and God knows, Tim, considering everything that's going on with you right now, no one would think less of you for it and that's the option I'm favoring; or, three, thing's improve, and I honestly have no idea how that works."

Tim kept his eyes focused on the USMS Employee Assistance Program brochure that Art had slid in front of him. He couldn't bring himself to reach over and take it. Though it seemed the most logical next step it also seemed an admission of something and he couldn't do it. He felt his face burning, wet his lips, said, "Can we discuss option three? Is it really on the table?"

"You've earned the chance." Art sat back.

After a silent couple of minutes, Tim realized that this was his chance so he started talking. "I didn't throw the first punch yesterday, but I admit I might have encouraged it. Brett," he pointed to the incident report with his name on it that was sitting on top of the pile now that the brochure was moved, "he, uh, he's a veteran, too. He thinks if he sugar-coats everything that it'll make it easy to swallow. I think he wants me in dance classes with his jailhouse gang or all of us crying on each others' shoulders or something."

"Doesn't work for you though, does it?"

A subdued roll of the eyes and a half-hearted tilt of the head was his answer. "He was pushy about it last night. It pissed me off."

"Did you explain to him what happened yesterday, what happened to your friend?"

A bare shake of the head.

"Jesus, Tim, I think he would've understood."

"He was _real_ pushy." Again, not quite an answer, but enough.

Art huffed, commiserating, frustrated. "Well, like it or not, you're going to have to apologize to him. He wants you disciplined – his words – and I have to appear to be doing something about it. Look, I know you had a shitty day, but you can't wear the badge and behave like a hooligan and get away with it." Art caught the jaded and disbelieving look and corrected himself, "Well, mostly you can't."

Tim nodded, sullen.

"So, can you do that? And I mean a face-to-face 'I'm sorry for acting like a fifth-grader' apology. If you can't, option three is off the menu."

"Yeah, sure." Another nod. "Does it have to be heartfelt or can I fake it?"

Art narrowed his eyes but accepted the terms. "Whatever you can manage is fine with me."

Tim looked down at his feet, was relieved to see he didn't have any broken shoelaces.

"They want you down in Noble's Holler today," Art said, back to business, "to look at those hunting accidents that likely aren't accidents. I was going to go with you but I've got too much going on around here with Raylan out and Nelson still...well, still Nelson. Can I trust you not add to my problems?"

"Boss, the only thing that might happen is I fall asleep – somewhere inappropriate." Tim reinforced the picture with a well-timed yawn, raised his eyebrows.

"As long as it's not on the interstate." Art lifted the brochure off his desk and waved it at Tim until he eventually took it and then Art pointed to it. "Let's see how the rest of the week goes. But meanwhile, you think about that. If you need some time to sort yourself out then for God's sake, Tim, take the time."

Tim was tired of the conversation, folded and unfolded the brochure, thinking he should probably wait until he was out of the building to toss it. Art would notice otherwise.

"And did I mention you look like shit? Drink your coffee – I don't want you napping in my office again."

Tim obediently took a sip, glanced tiredly across at Art who was sitting forward now, his face hidden behind his hands, hiding from his day. "I can't believe I'm saying this but take your rifle just in case."

It was a vote of confidence really, Art style.

* * *

"Chief," Tim answered flatly. It was the third time he'd phoned in two hours.

"Just checking you're not asleep."

Tim sipped his coffee loudly enough to ensure Art could hear it over the phone. "This is me loading up on caffeine. I bought three large at my favorite coffee house and filled the thermos."

"So what I'm picturing now is you holding a mug of coffee in one hand, your phone in the other…Who's steering?"

"You know, boss, now that you mention it, it might just be safer if you stop calling."

"I want to make sure you're okay. Are you okay?"

Tim blew out a long breath and worked as much patience into his reply as possible. "You know those PTSD episodes I mentioned, the one's I get when I'm handling firearms in public?"

A cautious, "Yeah."

"I get 'em worse when I'm driving."

"You're a laugh a minute."

From Tim, "Ha, ha."

A pause. "I'm never sure whether to take you seriously."

"Oh, you'll know."

"Seriously though, you ever get flashbacks – for real?"

Tim took another loud sip of coffee.

"Just answer the question, smart ass," Art snapped. "I know you got me on speaker phone."

Tim grinned then grimaced, answered the question, begrudging the truth. "Once or twice."

"What do you do about it?"

"Work through it." He rubbed each eye in turn, keeping one on the road, added after a moment, "Why are you so curious about this all the sudden?"

"'Cause all of the sudden you and your past are front and center in my present."

Tim thought about that. He had been flooded with triggers and reminders the last few weeks, his history oozing up through the cracks. It was starting to seep into his work, showing scuffs on his carefully maintained veneer.

"Are you still there or have you drifted off?"

"Still here." Still here.

"Call me before you head back."

"Sure thing, Pappy."

* * *

He sat in the SUV at the side of a deserted road running his fingers familiarly over his Beretta. He liked the feel of this weapon, more weight to it than the Glock, more serious, more history. Of course it wasn't this particular handgun that he'd carried with him into battle but if he didn't look at it, he could fool himself into believing that it was and maybe that's why he kept it with him. He released the magazine and emptied the rounds into his lap, lining them up, looking at each one in the sunlight and then sliding them back in again carefully. Slotting the full magazine back into the gun, Tim deliberately and slowly pulled back the slide to chamber a round and then ran his thumb over the safety, checking.

He held the gun loosely a moment then lifted it and imagined putting it in his mouth. That's what Gopher had done. He would've had to tilt his head back to do it and Tim tested the angle, resting his head back on the seat. Just like that. It felt oddly personal, the thought of holding a gun that way, more intimate than he'd ever been with a weapon. Under the chin might have been less weird but more risky. In the mouth then. He ran his thumb over the safety once more and opened wide, bringing the Beretta up. At the last second he pulled it away, released the clip, cleared the chambered round, dropped the ammunition on his legs and brought the empty gun up again, carrying through with the pantomime this time and holding the barrel perched between his teeth.

_Jesus is coming soon._

It would be more comfortable with a suppressor threaded on it.

He dropped his hand and his Beretta back into his lap and stared out the window.

It was one of those days that might be summer looking at it, if the thermometer could be taught how to lie. Tim even had a window rolled down on the SUV, the sun heavy and warming the dark fabric on his jacket and pants enough to make it comfortable. The air was still. Art had stopped calling and Tim had tried to doze off but the coffee was stirring up his thoughts and all he could do was shut his eyes for a few minutes at a time and twitch and think. And imagine what it would be like to blow a hole out of the top of his head.

He reached over for his thermos, poured the last of the warm coffee out into his mug and washed down the taste of gun metal, reloaded his weapon and tucked it away in his holster.

The Sheriff's car pulled in a while later, just as Tim was deciding to step out and walk around a bit. The woman waved, called out an apology for keeping him waiting. Tim frowned when Ellstin Limehouse appeared out of the passenger side of the cruiser and smiled over at him.

* * *

 


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

"I'm not a homicide investigator," Tim said, shaking hands with the Sheriff, then Ellstin Limehouse.

"It was Mr. Limehouse's suggestion that I call you. He said you had a particular expertise?"

Tim raised an eyebrow at the butcher and was answered with a sly grin.

"I recall a young sniper from the Marshals Office saying to me once that if I ever needed to hunt one of his kind I should call him." Ellstin dropped the grin, said, "Or maybe you was just puffing up feathers and strutting like a rooster."

"Well, I guess I'm not much of an actor. I was going for coiled snake."

"Uh-huh." The smile reappeared. "It's coiled snake I need, Deputy."

Tim looked back at the Sheriff. The way she deferred to Limehouse told Tim a lot. She owed him something.

"We think someone is targeting Mr. Limehouse's people," she explained, like Ellstin was the leader of a nation.

"Your shooter thinks it's black hunting season, does he?"

"You think that's funny? You a solid, through-and-through cracker, Deputy? You enjoy shooting those A-rabs in Afghanistan?" Limehouse put some extra emphasis on the 'A' in Arab, grinning like a showman.

"Not many Arabs in Afghanistan, Mr. Limehouse – I bet you already know that. I dealt mostly with the Pashtun. There were a couple idealists joined the other side, white boys from somewhere picking up rifles for the cause. And I had bullets for them, too. I'm an equal opportunity racist – I can hate anybody given the chance."

"I can hate this boy, whoever he is," Limehouse commented more seriously. "He already shot two on our land – unarmed folk just going about their business. Cut and run."

Tim squinted past the tall man, eyes moving over the landscape. "If it's what you think, there'll be two of them more than likely, egging each other on. Courage in numbers." He shrugged at his meager criminal profiling abilities. "Or maybe just one crazy cracker."

"I can handle one crazy cracker."

"You speaking from experience?" Tim asked.

Limehouse replied, "Are you?"

And Tim let the question pass.

Ellstin had brought a young man with him, barely out of his teens, if even, though it was hard to tell he was so tall.

"Jimmy here says he thinks he found where the shooter set up last time," Limehouse explained.

"When Mr. Rowley was shot in the head," Jimmy added breathlessly. "I was up running around this morning, found it."

"He came along in case you wanted to see for yourself."

"I would," Tim said. "Is it far?"

"'Bout ten minutes up the hill if we jog it."

Tim eyed the long legs offering to lead the expedition then turned to the Sheriff and made a suggestion, "You and Mr. Limehouse can wait here if you'd like or I'll meet you back in town later."

She agreed eagerly, not at all excited about a nature hike before lunch. "Sure, I'll be at my office."

Tim and Jimmy headed up the hill at a good pace, the younger man turning around after a few minutes with a challenging grin which fell off when he saw that the Marshal was in step behind him and not looking winded. Tim, for his part, wasn't trying to show off, he was just grateful to be doing something, into a rhythm. He'd already had a run that day, up and out the door early, 4am, trying to put some distance between himself and the closing world. There were times when he felt like letting inertia do its thing and throw him out of the circuit he normally ran, throw him off in a straight line either east to West Virginia or west to Missouri, and he'd keep going, ending finally at one ocean or another, or maybe not ending on the shore but running straight on into the gray horizon.

It had been done before. Forrest Gump. And he was back in the church tent watching Colton Rhodes play out his last minutes in his closing world, another suicide, and Tim would argue with anyone who called it anything else. Colton had run a straight line into a gray horizon since coming back from Afghanistan and eventually he'd dropped off the end. No matter how Tim spun the tale it finished that way. There were turns that could've been made. No one could tell him it wasn't deliberate. Colton Rhodes had opted out.

And Gopher had opted out.

Even Mark had opted out. Or had he? Maybe that was unfair. Maybe he'd gone down fighting. Or maybe he disguised his path well, even from himself, that deliberate straight line to the gray horizon. And the drug dealer, the ex-marine, Mr. Fallujah, he was Charon, ferrying them all on their way for a price. And where did that leave Tim – wandering the far shore, unwilling to fork out the coin? Shit. He had to stop thinking like this. He had to stop.

"This is the place."

Jimmy had halted abruptly and Tim stumbled into him.

"Tired?" the young man sneered.

"You have no idea," Tim answered, his heart rate already slowing. He looked around, getting his bearings. There was a short sheer drop on the hill that opened a clearing in the tree canopy and allowed an unobstructed view down to a group of houses in the holler. The floor of the forest was trampled flat in one spot at the top of the cut.

"See?" Jimmy said and pointed.

Tim eyed his young guide suspiciously. "What made you decide it was the shooter that was here?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Looks right, doesn't it?"

Tim cocked his head, catching on quick to the deception. "You found some brass when you were up here first time, didn't you? Can I see it?"

Reluctantly, Jimmy pulled two casings out of his pocket, held them out.

Tim pulled a bag from his pocket, opened it and Jimmy dropped them in. "This is potentially a crime scene," he explained patiently. "You don't pick up shiny things from a crime scene to keep as souvenirs – that's obstruction of justice. Got it?"

"Whatever."

That the shooter was careless with the casings told Tim that it wasn't a professional job, not someone accustomed to having to cover his tracks. The ammunition used, though, that was worrisome because of what it said about the man behind the rifle. The bullets forensics found with the bodies were Lapua Scenars, expensive, imported, but these casings, sized to fit that type of round, were made by Remington. The shooter was hand loading and that meant he was serious about his ammunition and serious about his skills. Or maybe it was just a hobby, Tim thought grimly, and the guy was simply out hunting, mistaking people for deer, off-season, standing at their front door.

"Huh." He chewed on his lip and considered where the information about the cartridges might take him next, stuffed the bag and its contents back in his pocket and looked off down the hill, down the line to the target.

Jimmy turned to look too. "Huh, what?"

"Nothing. Let's head back. I'll drop you at home."

* * *

A few hours later Tim was pulling boxes of ammunition out of the locker in the back of the trailer at Fischer's gun range. The place was empty on a weekday afternoon. Tim heard the trailer door open.

"What if I'd thought you were a burglar and shot at you?"

Tim leaned back to see around a stack of boxes, a half-smile for his friend, for the grumpy face and gray brush-cut. "You'd miss."

"Hell, I would. What are you doing here?"

"Looking for .50 caliber rounds. Where the fuck are they? This locker is a mess."

Fischer pointed into the back corner and Tim pulled down a box. He dumped what was left on the table and said, "This all you got?"

"Why, you planning on going through all that this afternoon?"

"Yep."

"I'll order more."

Tim unlocked the gun case and chose his favorite rifle. "I'm going to go pound the fuck out of the range, then I'm going to organize your ammo 'cause this place looks like shit, then I'm going to drink your bourbon."

Fischer squinted, pursed his lips. "Like that, is it?"

"It's like that," Tim answered.

"I'll go buy some bourbon. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Usually an hour with the Barrett would force the troubles of the world to the outside of a tunnel that Tim constructed when he went shooting, a dead zone to shut it all out that he willfully created each time he got behind a rifle, nothing but air and wind and bullet drop between the toes of his boots and the exact spot on the target down range that he was aiming for, an alleyway of straining focus that didn't allow for emotions or intrusions or any thoughts beyond the pulling of a trigger and the arrival of a deadly round. But not today.

"You're shooting like shit," Fischer commented bluntly, back from booze shopping. "You sick or something? You better not be dragging your virus-infected ass anywhere near me."

Tim yanked off the hearing protection and flopped over onto his back, frustrated. "Fuck."

Fischer studied the prone figure then stepped over him onto the range and snarled, "Don't shoot me." He headed up the field to check the targets.

"No chance of that happening, though I'd like to – I'm outta ammo," Tim mumbled, hands scrubbing his face. He scrambled to his feet and trotted after the range owner.

"I got a cord of wood needs splitting," the man called back without turning around. "Leave the rifle and get your sorry ass down to the house and get started. I'll let you know when you've done enough to have earned a drink. After seeing this pathetic waste of good rounds, you might be at it a while to cover the cost, so pace yourself."

Tim stopped, flipped a finger at Fischer's back, turned and headed down the drive to the house.

The stack of split wood grew and the frustration receded and Tim accepted the wisdom of hard physical labor and the cold beer that appeared forty-five minutes later. He set the axe in the shed and sat in a chair in the yard and cooled down, getting up to get his hoodie and jacket as the sweat started to chill on his skin.

When he plunked himself back into his seat, Fischer broke open the topic that had prompted a trip to the liquor store.

"That was seriously the worst I've ever seen you shoot. You feeling all right?"

"It's been a tough week."

"Is that what brought you here?"

"Not entirely." Tim finished his beer and Fischer offered him a round of hard liquor.

"Well, let's deal with the easy stuff first," he suggested.

Tim obliged. "I'm looking for a local – he'll be shooting distance targets, proud of it, out to 800 yards or maybe more, hand-loaded rounds, Lapuas and Remington cases, .206s. He's a racist bastard. Can you ask around? Likely there are two of them shooting together and at least one of them is decent at it."

"Better than you?"

Tim acknowledged the jab by kicking at Fischer's foot. "Better than I am today, anyway."

"I'll make some phone calls."

"Thanks."

"Now…how about the rest of it?"

"I just wanted a drink."

"You look like you could use some sleep."

Tim pressed his lips together, gave no response.

Fischer noted too the lack of eye contact and knew better than to try. "So what do you think of those PGF rifles? TrackingPoint out of Texas has one on the consumer market. Hefty price tag, but still, that's some scary shit. Probably not the kind of application Linux had in mind when they open-sourced their operating system…"

He kept up a monologue of current technical news on long range rifles and Tim followed along, half there, nods and 'uh-huhs' well-spaced.

They went inside as the afternoon moved to evening and the air turned too chilly to be comfortable, ate some dinner and worked their way through most of a twenty-sixer of Jim Beam and when Tim fell asleep in the armchair in front of the TV, Fischer went into the other room and called Miljana for a quiet chat.

* * *

 


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

_Call me if you need me,_ she'd said bringing her forehead to his at the table after coffee that morning. _I'll be at the office all day. I'll tell them to interrupt if it's you. Call me if you need to talk, all right?_

Miljana never said stuff like that. He inspected the simple words, rolling them out into the spotlight in his head, repeating them with different emotions, different emphasis. _She knew_ , and suddenly he felt wide open and guilty. He swiped both palms down his jeans, nervous and exposed. _She knew_ , like she'd been sitting in the SUV with him on that quiet road in Harlan, watching. It wasn't the reaction she would've wanted but he felt at that moment that she'd be better off without him. It sounded so pathetic in his head, so much melodrama, so not like him. He scanned the bullpen suspiciously. Who else knew? When was Art going to call him in and take away his firearms?

"How'd it go yesterday?"

Art stopped in front of Tim's desk and crossed his arms and Tim felt a sense of dread, of being caught red-handed. "Sorry, what?"

Art snapped his fingers. "Wake up, Tim. Had a coffee yet?"

"Two, actually. I was just thinking."

"When did that start? Should you see a doctor?"

"See a doctor?" Tim repeated, defenses up. "For what?"

Art blinked once, twice, moved on, continuing his tour of the bullpen and stopping at Rachel's desk. "Morning, Rachel."

"Morning, Chief." She was already laughing.

"What's his problem?" Art jabbed a thumb back at Tim.

"Like I'd know?" Rachel shook her head at the two of them. "Go ask him."

"I don't dare. I'm afraid I might start him thinking again."

Tim had gathered up his wits enough to join in. "Hey, I was down in Harlan yesterday. It always takes a bit of time to recover from that and you all know it. Give a man a break."

Art sauntered back over, reached for Tim's mug and strolled across the room to fill it up. He placed it back on Tim's desk with a flourish and Tim played along, pulled a quarter of out his pocket and flipped it in the air at Art. Art caught it neatly and smiled, "Thank you," put it between his teeth to test it.

"It's authentic," Tim huffed.

"Not much of a tip."

"I got a tip for you. Don't piss off a man with a loaded gun."

"Good tip," Art said, looked back over his shoulder to where his holster was hanging in his office. He turned back to Tim, smiled pleasantly. "I'm feeling lucky today, so I got a tip for you – answer your boss's questions. How'd it go yesterday?"

Tim smirked. "They've definitely got some whack job down there waving the KKK banner. I helped as far as I could. I got Fischer making some calls out to the ranges, see if anyone's been shooting with that kind of ammo. Shooting off their mouths too, maybe." Tim straightened a few papers on his desk. "And, well…"

A sainthood's worth of patience, but eventually Art felt he had to prompt, "Well, what?"

Tim chewed the inside of his lip, a sideways look at Rachel then Art. "Well, I got the distinct impression that Mr. Limehouse was hoping I'd volunteer to go hunting."

"That's not your job," Art said it quickly. "I spoke to the Sheriff this morning. She's decided to get the Feebs involved."

A dismissive huff. "She thinks they'd be better at finding him?"

"So you _do_ want to go hunting."

"I'm good at it."

"Yeah, you're good at it, but it's not your job," Art repeated firmly. "Anything else come up?"

"Nothing, really. Limehouse was pulling the 'you a cracker' act on me. He loves doing that. He's too smart, that guy. Plays up the black thing to get a reaction. It's a good way to get under people's skin to the truth."

Rachel interrupted, "The 'black thing'? Limehouse is black? And I thought he was just dirty."

Tim and Art chuckled in appreciation.

"Oh, she's funny today." Art grinned for Tim. "And you get to ride with her this morning."

"Trouble?" Tim glanced between them.

"No, it's take your kid to work day."

* * *

"Tim!"

He realized through a red haze that Rachel was yelling, fistfuls of his shirt in each of her hands pulling him off the man now down on the floor of the garage, blood running down his face.

"Tim, stop!"

He stood up abruptly, staggered into Rachel, almost toppling her over onto her back, grabbed her arm to keep her balanced.

Open-mouth, one hand still gripping him tightly, she stared at him, breathing heavily. "What are you doing?" she hissed. "Go, wait by the car." She physically turned him around and shoved him toward the bay door.

It took a dozen blind steps for Tim to come to his senses and when he did, remembering the gun, threatening, pointed in Rachel's face, he panicked. He was leaving her without cover, without backup. He twisted mid-step and ran back into the garage, hand on his sidearm. But the man they were here to question hadn't regained his feet, still stunned from the fury of the attack, still on his back on the cement, his left hand gingerly holding his nose, his right outstretched, Rachel's foot pinning it. She had her weapon drawn and pointed menacingly.

"And that's why you don't get your shit up in my face when I've brought my pit bull with me," Tim could hear her saying. "I hope you've learned something, Mr. Carroll. Now again, where is your dirtbag associate?" She shifted her weight, pressing down on the flesh, dangled his gun calmly by the trigger guard, taunting. "Answer me and I won't arrest you for pulling this shit on a federal officer or for possession of said shit when it's in direct violation of your parole terms. Are you hearing me?"

"Yes, ma'am," he whined.

Tim turned and walked outside and leaned against the building, out of sight but within earshot, and tried to piece together what had just happened.

Rachel came out five minutes later. "Got a location, sort of," she said then, "Tim, where's your head?"

He couldn't look at her.

"I appreciate you stepping in but that…" She stopped and shook his arm affectionately. "Art told me about your friend. Are you okay?"

* * *

Rachel pointed at his desk, left him digging for the afternoon for information, something to move her investigation forward. Tim had trouble focusing, and couldn't come up with anything to help with her case. He gathered himself together shortly before five and headed out to see Brett Riley, do some groveling to please Art. He hardly remembered the drive, pulled up at the halfway house and hunkered down behind his barriers.

Brett listened silently to the apology then opened the door to the house and gestured inside when Tim had finished, "I think you need to come in and repeat that to the men who were here that night."

"I've apologized to you as a professional courtesy. I don't owe these guys the same." Tim turned away as his fists balled up, got to the bottom of the steps quickly, eyes on his escape route.

Brett had one more round left and fired it, called after him, "VA got in touch again about your friend. They still can't get an answer. Maybe you should go up to Cinci like I asked and see what's what."

Tim fumbled in his pocket for the car keys, kept walking a straight line away from the battle he couldn't win, firing to cover his escape. "Well, you thank them for me when they call you again. They did their job well. They got Gopher out of his apartment."

"That's good news then. Glad I could help."

One last well-placed bullet. "When they call back, tell them to try him at the city morgue." He opened the door of the SUV and got in, didn't look back, satisfied just knowing he'd wiped another stupid smile clean off the man's face.

* * *

"It's always there," Tim said and looked over at the figure lying on the bed, "and I know you know what I'm talking about, so don't deny it. I know it's always there for you, too. And the bitch is, I can't see a day when it's not going to be there. I mean, seriously, can you see a way to make that happen? I think that gets me more than anything – that I'll never live another day without knowing what I know and seeing what I've seen. I only know one way to stop it. There's only one way out of it.

"It's why you keep going back to prison, isn't it? So that you only have to deal with that, nothing else. I don't blame you. I get it. It takes too much fucking energy dealing with it so what do you possibly have left of yourself for stupid-ass things like living?"

Tim listened to the respirator pumping, the sound defeating any hope of dialogue. He plowed on.

"The first time you do it, you're like, _holy shit, holy fuck_ ," hands up by his head in imitation of horror. "It's surreal. And then later, it's all trying to figure out how you're supposed to feel. And then after that you stop worrying about that bullshit 'cause you'll never figure it out and it just does your fucking head in and it's not like you can talk about it 'cause no one wants to hear it anyway." He squirmed in his chair, turned so he was facing Walt more squarely. "I just…I just never imagined it would be like that.

"I mean, who could? You see someone drop from one of your bullets, or someone's jaw blown off or you're stepping all over some…or that time you make a shot and you see someone go down and it's _not_ a guy with a gun or a stick even and maybe it's even a…and you think, _did I do that?_ And then you think, _would I do that?_ I don't even know anymore if I would. I wouldn't know until I did it again. Would I do that? I don't know. I just don't know. It's all messed up in my head. It's like I can't trust myself anymore so why would somebody else trust me?

"But before it all, I think I used to know. Well, I thought I knew. And other people they look so confident when they say, _oh I'd never do that_. _Seriously_ , I think, _never?_ But they believe it, and I can't believe they believe it. They wouldn't? Do you think they really know? I don't. Some days, I want to believe them and I think I'm just a fucking psychopath or something, but other days – and I think maybe I'm a little more honest about it on those days and that depresses me – those days I know they're fucking kidding themselves. They don't know shit. I mean, I was stupid back when I thought I knew what I would or wouldn't do and they're stupid still and I'm not anymore. I know now what I'm capable of and maybe I should feel better than them, feel smarter than them, knowing myself better. But I don't. I wish I could unlearn some things."

Tim waved a hand helplessly in the air, slumped back into the chair he was occupying and took a deep breath. The small bottle of whiskey he'd bought on the way over and hidden to sneak into Walt's room was sitting on the hospital table beside the bed. He reached over and twisted off the lid and took a gulp, raised it up in a salute and made a wry face. "Sorry, Walt, that you can't share. I'm going to drink anyway. I thought you might like it but it's coming kind of late, I guess."

The nursing staff had informed him before he entered the room that Walt Reynolds was on a respirator and unresponsive. Tim had hoped to give the guy one last hurrah. He would've happily sat and let Walt throw abuse at him for the whole evening if it would give him one good moment before the end. He didn't think he could sneak a cigarette in and light it up for him otherwise he would've. Walt didn't deserve that moment any less than Colton Rhodes had. The sentence sounded wrong in his head but he couldn't think of a better way to arrange it. He reached over and had another drink, held onto the bottle this time.

"Oh I know you're awake, Sleeping Beauty," he drawled. "Or are you holding out for a kiss from Prince fucking Charming?"

Tim stood up and leaned over and smacked his lips loudly near Walt's ear and almost laughed when his eyes popped open.

"Still with us, huh? Sorry, man."

Walt's eyes narrowed expressively.

"You want to know what I was thinking about the other day?" Tim didn't really mean it as a question, continued with his monologue. "They should do a reality TV show, call it _In the Shit,_ follow soldiers around on patrol and film what happens and maybe they could send in celebrities to guest star, hand them a rifle and say, go nuts, let's get some shots of your face the first time you see the back of some guy's head blown off and you're responsible for it. Imagine doing that?"

He smiled a genuine smile for Walt and the man's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners and Tim imagined what he might look like happy.

"It's a fucked up world, Walt." Tim eyed the liquor, set it back up on the table out of reach. "I have a girlfriend. She's wonderful. I was thinking earlier that maybe I wasn't good for her but now I'm thinking maybe it's the other way around. Maybe she's not good for me. I've got things in my life now that I want to hang on to and she's one of them. But if I want to hang on to her, I've got to hang on myself. I'm so afraid of losing the things I've got, like her, that I'm going a bit crazy thinking about it. It was easier when I had nothing. It's fucked up, she's keeping me here and it just kills me some days. I say it like she's being mean." He brought his hands up to cover his face and dragged away the drama, saw Walt watching him.

"I gotta go." Tim slid his chair closer to the bed, whispered, "But before I go, I'll tell you a secret. If Brett would just pull on me, I'd shoot him in the fucking face."

The crinkles reappeared and a glint. Tim grinned back, stood up and walked to the window. "I'll be by tomorrow again if it'll annoy you. You want anything?" He turned back to the bed and held Walt's gaze.

* * *

 


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

Tim swept his eyes over the forest floor, a gentle rise ahead of him. There's where he needed to be and damn all the shit in between. He was concealed just now, except maybe from the ant crawling under the leaf that he could see from his vantage point, face in the dirt. The ant didn't give him a second thought, kept on marching its way east. Tim wished at that moment that he was an ant. He was out of practice for this level of stalking.

He had time, no need to rush this, carefully, carefully. Twelve hours was plenty long enough to do this right and get into a position to do a little hunting of his own. People were counting on him. He reached an arm out slowly, pushed a branch to the side in the direction of the light breeze, inch by inch, dragged his bulk and his rifle a half a body-length toward his goal. A cooperative wind picked up then, rustling the ground cover. He took advantage of the stirring through the underbrush and pulled himself forward more quickly until the wind died out and he slowed with it.

_Art scowled his scowl when Tim suggested it, pulled him away from the locals and the Feebs to have a private conversation, brought up a hand and positioned his thumb and index finger within a hair's breadth of each other._

" _Tim, I'm this close to chaining your ass to a chair in the office – you have not been yourself since the Rhodes shooting and it worries me – and you want me to let you loose on your own with a rifle?"_

" _I can do this."_

" _I don't doubt your skills. I'm doubting your state of mind."_

" _My mind is in exactly the right state for doing this."_

" _And that's where the worry kicks me in the nuts."_

Tim wasn't worried, not about this. There was no place for doubt out here, exposed. He'd never doubted himself before in these circumstances and he wasn't about to start, no matter what shit he was carrying around in his head today. He tucked Art's concerns well down in an out-of-the-way corner of his thoughts and eyed his route calmly.

There were three of them, 'a box of crackers' was the way Limehouse described them and they'd tracked one down which meant there were two likely positioned out here and that made Tim's job a little harder. Ideally he'd have sight of them both before he made a shot. A spotter would've been welcome but Tim didn't trust anyone in the law enforcement group gathered at the table or within reach in the time constraints they were working with, no one with the training needed to remain unseen on the move. And besides, he only had the one ghillie suit.

_Art stopped at Tim's desk. "One of Fischer's contacts came through. ID'd a gaggle of yahoos from a range not far out of Hazard. They've sent a team to their house to ask some questions, poke around. You want to go along?"_

_More serious talk the next day, huddled around a table in Limehouse's diner. "They've taken hostages, a family out of Noble's Holler, set up out in the forest – let their buddy go or they start shooting is the demand. We have until 5pm tomorrow," the agent in charge explained. "We know where the hostages are, but not the shooter, and we can't approach from any direction without alerting him. Any ideas?"_

Tim couldn't imagine the stupidity. With all the places in the world where this kind of hunting is possible, the idiots decided to shit in their own backyard. Stupid. And then the one they bagged sat and bragged about it – even stupider. Tim had known a few other guys that bragged about killing. He'd smile and joke with them and swallow the bile. Past a point he didn't even taste acid and there was nothing anymore that could move his stomach to comment, not until he put some distance in between and looked back. He mentally shook his head, tucked those thoughts well down out-of-sight with Art's concerns and continued his careful movements. This was no time for any of that drama. The drama he needed to concentrate on was what was happening around him right now; he needed to keep his energy focused on that. The drama inside had no place here. He packed it down hard and slammed a lid on it.

An hour later he settled behind a boulder for a break, a sip of water. Slowly, slowly he slid out again into view, stopped and huffed with the discovery of a tree fallen across his path – too big to go over, too low to go under, got to go around. Shit.

_He caught up with her after work the next day, after they'd tracked down cracker number one and the asshole had sung loudly in praise of his band of hate supporters, he and his two accomplices. Tim wondered at the things some people were proud of. He got back to the office in time to ambush Rachel as she was leaving the building. She looked like she expected to see him and suggested a beer._

" _You didn't tell Art," he said, finally broaching the topic._

" _Tell Art what?" she asked coyly, wanting him to admit to it._

" _About my losing it yesterday."_

_She put her arms on the table around her beer, leaned in close, matching her pose with his. "Tim," she said, "once is a mistake; twice, I might look the other way, give you the benefit of the doubt under the circumstances; any more than that and I'm sounding the siren, for your sake as much as anyone's. Got it?"_

_He nodded. "Thanks. I owe you."_

" _You don't owe anybody anything." She sat back and took a drink from her glass, raised a finger, swallowed. "Actually, I lied – you owe me being honest with yourself. Do you understand what I'm asking?"_

" _Yes, ma'am," he returned. She laughed and swatted at him._

_Yes, ma'am._ He could always count on Rachel, could've taught her how to hunt with him given the time. Trust, and he would've welcomed the company.

When he reached the uprooted base of the tree a half hour later he heard a telltale warning and halted. It was too far from Campton to be Haji, but the name came into his head anyway, too near still. He let his head rest on the ground for a moment, tired and grief knocking, then the scene at the apartment filled his mind and he took a deep breath, two, backed out of that memory and shut the door on it, locked it, walked away. No more. There was never anything he could've done about it. He let the anger wash through him, drain down, deep down, covered it tightly.

_He slipped back into the bedroom, silent but for the squeak in the floor. He thought he'd navigated around it._

_She awoke, wide awake, concerned. "Running again. It's been every night for a week, Tim. You can't keep doing this. You look exhausted."_

" _It's not the first time, won't be the last. It'll pass."_

_He slipped in beside her, up against her._

Another soft rattle and he moved his eyes to find the source. To his right, nestled in the bared roots of the fallen tree was a coiled timber rattler, watching him. She blended in and would've remained happily hidden if Tim hadn't been face-dragging his way through her territory. He smiled over at her, a silent greeting, and amused himself by raising an eyebrow as if asking her permission to pass. He took her silence as a willingness to abide his presence and slid his rifle forward slowly, inching alongside her hiding place.

_Behold I give unto you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions…and nothing shall by any means hurt you._ The words came back to him like a lullaby as he followed the direction of his rifle another inch, another, another, the rattler watching, and then the wind picked up again and he moved with it, letting it carry him more quickly up the incline.

He found a spot to set up about a hundred yards short of the clearing where the trees thinned. He would have a difficult shot uphill but it wouldn't be the first time he'd had that particular disadvantage in a firefight and he felt confident he could hit his target…if he could find the target. Worst case scenario, he'd have to wait until the time ran out and the man started firing. But for now, Tim would search. He settled himself into position and began a sweep of the forest beyond.

He had chosen this approach hoping not to be directly across the clearing from the shooter. The bait, the four captives tied to trees, were all facing uphill, and Tim felt a grim satisfaction seeing it. The arrangement was a mistake on the part of his adversary. He was almost broadcasting his position. It was as if he wanted an audience and set them up so he could see their faces and their fear. The display narrowed Tim's hunting ground.

He started with the obvious, put his eye to his scope and began his visual hunt at a tight clump of trees with an unlikely but not impossible pile of debris underneath and worked out from there, coming back to that position every five minutes or so to check, watching for movement, a glint, a change in the arrangement of branches or shadows. He had an idea about the man and his capabilities from the investigation. He concluded his prey was good, but not good enough. If he, Tim, were setting up this ambush, he wouldn't pick the obvious spot to set up, never the first choice. You had to be confident about your abilities on a rifle not to choose the best firing position, and you had to have experience. It only took being hunted as a sniper once to make you more wily, more cautious. Tim had that experience, hunting this kind of animal, he doubted his target did.

The sun was moving left to right, now well past the apex and on its way down, down toward the deadline. Tim slid his scope back to the clump of trees and paused there, certain, hoping the hunter was getting excited and restless or that maybe a change in the angle of the sunlight would reveal something. And then there it was – a reward for patience, a line too straight for a forest betraying the shooter in the shifting light and Tim wet his lips and focused on the area around it. He watched for twenty minutes and caught a slight movement and he could make out a piece of camouflage material, clear now where it was hidden before. He stared, concentrating for another long half hour, and the sunlight slid into a new angle and gave him more of an outline. He had the shooter in his sights, but still no idea where the second man was. He was running out of time.

He went through the math in his head, adjusted, slow, small movements, careful, did the math again, compensated for the uphill shot, dropped his finger onto the trigger and focused every part of his body into his familiar killing pose, nestled tightly against his rifle, breathing, a heartbeat, squeeze.

The shot split the air, a deafening crack that violated the stillness, and the forest jumped to life. Startled birds scrambled screeching for heights and a woman in the kill zone started to scream. Tim ignored her and focused down the scope, down the path his bullet had traveled. If the shot missed then he was vulnerable now. He heard someone running in the woods, away from him he hoped. He wished the woman would shut up but since he couldn't do anything about her he deliberately shut her out instead. He watched until his eyes started watering, finally turned his wrist slightly and chanced a glance at the time. It was just past 5pm. He moved then, daring, picked up his rifle in his left hand, pulled his side arm and sprinted up the hill.

It wasn't a clean shot, ripping in through the man's neck and down through his chest. The blood that Tim knew must be there was hidden among the leaves and dirt of the forest floor. He was still breathing and Tim stood over him a moment, just looking. He rolled him over with his foot and looked closely at his face, thinking maybe there was something familiar there, thinking maybe he knew him.

He crouched and searched for weapons, moved the rifle out of reach as a precaution and then made the call to Art.

"We're good," he said, scrutinizing the name on the Driver's License he pulled from the man's pocket, clawing through his memory trying to find it there too.

He left the body, slung both rifles across his shoulder and jogged back down to the clearing. It felt good to be moving quickly and he let his thoughts go finally where they wanted and he realized he was hungry and tired and nothing else. He made a pile – helmet, rifles – then pulled a knife and approached the closest victim, a boy.

The woman started screaming again and Tim changed direction, crouched down to her level saying, "It's alright, ma'am. I'm a US Marshal." He fished around in his pockets for his identification and held it in front of her face. Her screaming turned to sobbing and he cut her loose and gave her another smaller knife out of his pocket, tasked her with freeing the boy, her son likely, to calm her down and he went to help the other two hostages.

He could hear a helicopter approaching and the smell of blood rushed up out of his memories and crashed down on him. It was so familiar he almost welcomed it. He pulled off his gloves and threw them next to his helmet and pressed his sweating hands against his face.

_His skin was slack, that particular kind of slack that wasn't sleep. Tim stood at the end of the bed and watched the blanket rising and falling and wished he could've made it in one more time._

_The nurse scurried through the door, fussed around, asked, "Are you his son?"_

" _No," Tim shook his head, "a friend."_

" _It could be anytime now."_

_He nodded, still watching Walt, walked over and took a seat and waited._

* * *

 


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

_"Send me in,_ he says, _la-di-da, I'll hunt him down."_ Art spoke loudly, cutting through the quiet hum that was filling Tim's head, pleasantly disconnected. "So you get to spend the day strolling in the woods and I have to sit on nails and…sharp hot pokers and push my heart to the brink of cardiac arrest worrying about whether I've just hung myself by your rifle strap. And not one phone call until a minute after the deadline and then it's just, _we're good,_ all deadpan, no emotion, no _how're you doing Art? Lovely weather we're having. How's the arthritis? The hostages are fine, by the way."_

"Hey." Tim tossed a greeting over casually as Art approached, nattering.

_"Hey?_ Jesus Christ, Tim. That was the tensest, shittiest twelve hours of my life." He plunked himself next to his deputy, on the log Tim had found and taken possession of, and groaned loudly and exaggeratedly, getting a grin from the men within earshot. "They told you we got the third running to his car? Nervous as a liar in heaven. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Lovely weather. How's the arthritis?"

A scowl, then, "Rachel said that the first full sentence out of your mouth would be 'I'm starving.'" Art reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slightly squashed wrapped sandwich, handed it over. "She owes me a drink."

"Do you think she'd buy me one, too? I could use a drink." Tim accepted the offering, turned it over in his hands. "You find this under your seat on the helo next to the chewed up bubble gum?"

"You don't want it?"

Art reached for it and Tim pulled away, just out of range of the wiggling fingers. He unwrapped the sandwich, wrinkled his nose at it wondering just how hungry he really was then took two large bites and decided he was definitely hungry, ravenous.

Art was happy to see him eating, took a deep breath and relaxed some more, surveyed the scene. "You done good, Tim. I don't know anyone else who could've fixed this."

"I appreciate the confidence, boss – you letting me alone that long to get into position for a shot. That was a leap of faith."

"Oh, not so very great a leap." Art pulled a flask out of his pocket, looked around to be sure no one was watching them, passed it over. "Besides, we were desperate."

Tim grinned widely, looking like a kid who'd been out playing in the mud with his face still streaked for camouflage, took the flask, helped himself to a good mouthful and handed it back.

Art took a sip too, hid it back in his jacket. "Went smoothly, I guess?"

"The guy was good. He kept his cool all the way through. The way he situated himself he would've seen us coming a mile away."

"If the guy was so good then how come you got him?"

"'Cause I'm better," Tim replied, matter-of-factly.

"Did you know him?" Art couldn't hide his concern. "Is he military?"

"I don't know." Tim took another bite of the sandwich and talked around a mouthful. "I don't know. Maybe." He turned to watch them load the body onto the helicopter. "I don't think so."

"You can have my spot on the helo if you want," Art offered. "You must be exhausted."

"Actually, I'd rather walk out. Last time I pulled this sort of detail I was still in my twenties. I need to stretch out my legs."

"You want me to take the rifle?"

"Fischer told me he'd kill me if I let it out of my sight and anything happened to it. I'll carry it."

"Glad to have it?"

"Nice to have the extra power shooting uphill."

They both looked up when the boy stopped in front of them, his eyes bugged out at the bizarre forest creature sitting on a log eating a sandwich. "Thanks, mister," he said, quiet, earnest. "My mom told me to say that. She said she couldn't 'cause she'd just start crying and she didn't want to upset you."

"Tell your mom it's no problem."

The kid held out a hand, opened it, Tim's smaller knife in his palm.

Tim waved him off. "You keep it. You've earned a souvenir from this day, don't you think?" The boy grinned, turned and ran to his mother before the soldier could change his mind. "Enjoy the helo ride," he called after him.

Art got slowly to his feet to follow. "I'd better go too, or they'll leave without me. I'll meet you at the car – my turn to drive." Art hated driving.

"I was hoping for some of Limehouse's barbecue first," Tim said, standing too and stretching his arms up over his head.

"We can do that. In fact, maybe I'll join you." Art looked around the scene, back at Tim. "You sure you don't want a ride? Someone would give up their spot for you."

Tim shook his head. "The walk'll be nice. I'm good."

* * *

"Coiled snake, then." The comment dropped from Limehouse like a stone dropped from a bridge and watched carefully to see how it disturbed the water.

Tim looked up. "That barbecue sure smells good." Not even a ripple.

"I thought snakes liked their dinners alive and struggling."

"I'd settle for some pulled pork, if you could spare some for a cracker like me."

That comment, dropped, caused a ripple, rings spreading out from a smile. "Well, I doubt it you'd appreciate all the nuancing of my particular specialty, but," he wagged his head slowly side to side, "I might be feeling magnanimous this evening – services rendered and all. Come inside and have a seat on a stool and we'll fix you up." He added, "There's a large sink in the back of the kitchen, some soap. You can clean yourself up there."

* * *

"I hope I never have to do that again," said Art, one hand on the wheel.

"Well, I did offer up alternatives." The words slurred through a haze of exhaustion. Tim had given up the fight, his eyes sliding shut.

Art glanced sideways, responded to the comment. "Napalming the tree line just wouldn't go down well with the environmentalists and you know that. And an airstrike? I don't think that's something even the President could okay on US soil."

Tim shrugged, his head sliding up and down against the window where it was resting. "You people want solutions and then throw up all these roadblocks to any ideas at all. Where's your imagination?"

"I'm imagining you in a straightjacket in a cell at The Ridges."

"I don't think The Ridges is operational anymore."

"Shit. What do I do with you then?"

"If you could drop me at the courthouse so I could pick up my truck, I'd appreciate it."

"Okay."

The quiet hum was back, drowning out the noises from the highway and filling Tim's mind so that nothing else could get in. It felt good and he relaxed into it.

"You seem more like yourself tonight." Art's voice weaved its way into Tim's consciousness, unthreatening.

"I'm okay, boss. Really."

"You want to take some time off?"

"Nope."

Art nodded; Tim could see it through the gap in his eyelids.

"Seriously, Art, I'm fine. It just threw me, you know?"

"Yeah."

"I just needed a nice stroll in the woods."

Art snorted.

Tim straightened up, yawned. "Got any of that bourbon left?"

Art reached into his jacket and handed over the flask. "There might be a mouthful or two. I drank most of it between four and five this afternoon."

* * *

It wasn't warm enough, not yet porch weather, but she was there, waiting, watching. Tim pulled his truck into the driveway; his feet landed heavily on the asphalt. He gathered his gear. Miljana came down the steps to meet him, took his rifle bag from him to free up one of his arms and threw one of hers around him. He leaned into the affection and hummed a note in appreciation of warmth and softness and led her into the house. She wouldn't stop kissing him and he finally dropped his bags in the hall and returned the attention, hands sliding under her shirt and beneath the waist of her jeans and she tasted much better than any cigarette he'd ever tried and he was happy that he'd made his shot and come home alive to her.

Tim felt himself settle then, settle back on the vertical, a shift in the weight, the right tension on the hold and he was almost exactly back where he started, back before Mark dragged him to the VA Center, before Raylan went to talk to the Hill People and left him staring at Army issue boots and dead eyes and a recall to Bagram, before the thin curl of smoke slithering up, before the promise to Mark. No ground gained, though. But still, it felt good.

He awoke later, thoughts dripping from a leaky tap, slipped out of bed and went downstairs to the closet and fished the sunglasses out of his jacket where they'd sat for a week. He carried them back upstairs into the bedroom, into the drawer and into the box along with all the other shit that he hid, mostly from himself. He wandered the house in the dark, collected what he needed to clean Fischer's rifle and set up on the kitchen table. He made a pot of coffee and poured some bourbon and worked contentedly at the metal.

* * *

"It's raining."

A simple statement can carry so much baggage, Tim thought. He pointed to the blanket he'd carried out to the porch but hadn't bothered with. Miljana picked it up and settled on his lap and pulled it over them both. He bent to the side to rescue his glass of bourbon from the porch floor, switched it to his left hand and tucked her instead into the curve of his right arm. She watched the process.

"I remember you saying once that you were going to get rid of all the liquor in the house, just stock beer." He hadn't spoken yet and she was trying to gauge his mood.

" _Pouring out liquor is like burning books,"_ he said, took a sip and kissed her, leaving a film of bourbon and a scent of too many restless nights on her lips.

She licked it off, a bit of burn lingering. "Wow, Tim, waxing poetic about alcohol."

"It's not my line. I borrowed it. Don't remember from where – it just stuck with me. Seemed like something that fit my life. I knew I'd get a chance to say it someday."

"Art or Raylan maybe?"

"Nope. I read it. But I suspect it's been said a million times by people that think too much…them and drunks." He grinned and mischief loosed itself into the air.

She studied his face in the spattering of light from the street. "You're back," she said.

"I told you it would pass."

It said something that he would know that, know enough to say confidently that it would pass. She didn't care to think about how he knew, didn't care to think about that just now.

* * *

the end


End file.
